In the Summertime
by The Reviews Lounge
Summary: A series of oneshots, each by a different author - written for the Reviews Lounge Summer Project. R&R please!
1. Remus Lupin

_**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling. Song lyrics belong to Mungo Jerry/Ray Dorset.**_

_In the summertime when the weather's high,  
you can stretch right up and touch the sky,  
when the weather's fine_

_

* * *

_**Slaying Dragons**

_Remus Lupin_

**by FirstYear**

Remus stood at the platform and raised his hand to the train as it pulled out of the station. He was not sure if the others could see him, but still he stood with his hand raised and a smile plastered on his face wishing he were going as well.

"Mr. Lupin, it is time," Professor McGonagall rested her hand on his shoulder, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

"Yes Madam," he turned his body towards hers but his head still followed the train as it gathered speed and left him further and further behind.

"Mr. Lupin I suggest you watch where you are going and not where you might have been."

"Yes, Madam," he said again, looking up at her. "I could'a done it though. I know I could' a."

"We have been over this. I will not entertain this conversation again."

"Yes, Madam, but I could'a done it. It doesn't get dark until late."

"That is quite enough Mr. Lupin." She looked down her nose at the smaller then average just turned second year. "I am sorry that the moon's cycle happens to interfere with your personal wants. However, it is a fact you must learn to deal with."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall, but I cou…"

"That is quite enough young man," she looked at him sternly and managed to stop her lip from twitching upwards. "One more night under our roof will not matter years from now."

Together they started the walk back up to Hogwarts, she with her hands clasped behind her back, him mimicking her frown and stance, his hands also clasped behind him. She watched him from the corner of her eye, wanting to laugh outright at his serious expression that he thought was her, but managed to clear her throat loudly enough to shatter his concentration before speaking.

"You may spend the rest of the afternoon on the grounds. Perhaps Hagrid could use some help. However, I do expect you in my office after dinner. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Madam," he smiled up at her.

He ran down the path towards the groundkeeper's hut hearing Minerva's final warning to be on time. Rounding the side of the hut he caught sight of Hagrid on his knees tending to an injured Thestral.

"Cor, what 'appened to 'em?"

"Don't know lad. Something caught a hold of him, look 'ere." He ran his large finger over the slash wound on the creature's side and lifted the wing to point out the lacerations on the underside.

"Whatever it was, it came up under 'em," Remus observed.

"Wolf maybe or big cat," Hagrid shook his head. "Ain't heard tell of no wolves round these parts and the big cats don't come down this far."

Remus stood up and stepped back from the bloodied creature. "Will he be fixed?"

"Ya, think he will be just fine, now you go on. See how he looks at you? Nervous he is, … shouldn't have said that lad, its not you…just some bother 'em more than others."

"It's okay Hagrid."

"Not many your age ca' see 'em." Hagrid scratched his beard. "Might be why he is scared of ya, being seen by such a young'un an all."

"It's not a wolf you know," Remus took another step back. "A wolf would have jumped 'im, ripped his throat out, not gone for the belly and raked the sides like that. Looks like a cat, right? A big cat. Right Hagrid?"

"Don't rightly know boy…"

"I know," Remus screamed at him, fisting his hands. "I know it's not a wolf. It's not, it can't be. Not a real wolf, not like what's around here. Wolves would have made noise, you would'a heard 'em."

Remus turned and ran back to the castle, down the hallways, and to his common room. He fled up the steps to his room and threw open his trunk, pulling out the book he kept on top. Sitting back on his heels he flipped it open and began to read, looking at the pictures that he had seen a thousand times, tracing his finger over the familiar images, and calming at the knowledge that this is what he was, not the vile creature that could bring down a magical creature in the forest.

He sat there though the afternoon until he had turned the last page of the book and turned back to the beginning to start again.

"Mr. Lupin?" Professor McGonagall said softly from the doorway. "I have just spoken to Hagrid. May we talk about it?"

Remus nodded without taking his eyes off of the book. He sat quietly until he felt the Professor join him on the floor, then let her take the book from his lap and settled it on hers. She patted the carpet next to her, indicating that he should move closer and as he slid across the space that separated them he peeked up and saw her grin.

"I see your mother has already started your summer education."

"I got it last summer. When I got my letter."

"Ah, yes. A very difficult letter to send. The Headmaster wrote it himself you know."

"Mum said I had a right to be here, she said Headmaster even told her so."

"Of course you do, that was never in doubt with us. Although, I am sure some will think differently. You just listen to the Headmaster and your mother."

"See here?" He flipped the pages of the book and pointed to the picture of three wolves in full run. "They hunt together. They are pack animals it says."

"A wolf is a smart animal," she added, turning the page to the next picture.

"Yeah," he nodded furiously and leaned over the book. "It says that people are scared of them because they don't know about them, don't understand them you see."

"As it is about many things. We fear that which we do not know."

"That's what Mum says."

"Your mother is a smart woman, Remus."

"Hagrid said a wolf did it, but a wolf wouldn't have done that Professor."

"Creatures are sometimes scared as well Remus. They must learn to exercise caution when around the unknown."

"You think maybe the Thestral scared it? You think maybe that's it?" He looked up at her hopefully.

"Perhaps," she turned the page again, giving him time to absorb what she had said. "Perhaps he was not raised by a wolf and was not taught how to act like a good wolf."

"Who do you think raised him?"

"Perhaps he was only a cub when he was found. Perhaps a well meaning wizard took care of him and then released him into the wild."

Remus reached over and turned another page, and then another, pausing and looking up at her from the corner of his eye.

"My Mum can teach me. Can't she?"

"Your mother is not a wolf, but she will do the best she can, as will all of us."

He rose on his knees and cupped his hands around her ear, leaning in to whisper, "I get scared sometimes too."

She put her arms around him as the sting of tears began behind her eyes. Giving him a quick hug she cleared her throat and disengaged his arms, struggling to stand as she hid her face from him.

"You are a Gryffindor, of course you are scared at times."

"Gryffindors are brave."

"Bravery is facing fears. Any fool can slay a dragon, it is those that fear the dragon that exhibit bravery in doing so."

"Can I stay here tonight? The rest are gone for the summer."

Minerva looked into his face and saw the glimmer of hope that he still held, a hope born of as yet easy transitions and padded restraints.

"No, it is not safe, not for yourself and not for others. You know the rules."

"I could'a made it home. My Mum lets me sleep in the barn all night. It's like camping out."

"And what if the trains were delayed? What if it was crowded at the station and she could not get a taxi? What if you had been unable to be home before darkness?"

"Sometimes it's not so bad. I think I can make it stop if I try really hard, really really hard."

"You will have the summer to practice. Four moons, August has a blue moon this year as I am sure you know. You have charted the cycles, have you not?"

"Yes Madam," he sighed. "If I can do it, I mean really do it, can I stay in my room then?"

Minerva looked at him, unable to say aloud what she knew needed to be said. "Yes Mr. Lupin, if you can demonstrate control and constraint you may stay in your room. Remember Mr. Lupin, there is nothing you cannot endeavour to achieve. However, not every endeavour will be successful, and it is in these failures that we find strength. Now, it is past dinner time. You need to run along and eat before we see to your sleeping arrangements."

She watched him run down the stairs and out of sight, headed for the Great Hall where he would eat before being locked up in an empty chamber for the night. She would slide open the small wooden slot in the door and check on him from time to time and see the future he had in front of him.

It was getting worse, she knew. It was no longer just his body that changed, but now also his mind. She had seen his childish eyes turn hard and cold, flickering from the dark corners to the slot in the door, flickering between the two worlds, fighting to stay in hers. Unable to hold on to his boyish dream long enough to ignore the call.

She smoothed her robes and patted her head, making sure he had not dislodged her hat with his hug. He will learn, she thought, hoping that he had one more summer to be free. One more summer before he knew for sure that his dragon could not be slain.


	2. Teddy Lupin

_**Song lyrics written by PrincessPearl**_.

**

* * *

Piano Keys**

_Teddy Lupin  
_

**by PrincessPearl  
**

_When rain fades away and the clouds part_

_The sun is revealed and it's summer's start_

_Blue skies brighten and children play_

_When the sun comes out, it's here to stay_

"What're you doing?"

Teddy jumped at the sound of Victoire's voice, making his fingers slip and clang against the keys of the piano to create a loud, shrill sound which wasn't musical in the least.

"Torie," he greeted when he had collected himself. "What are you doing over here?"

"Listening to you." Victoire nudged him over so she could sit beside him. "What's the name of the song?"

Teddy shrugged. "Beats me. I just started writing it this morning. What do you think?"

Victoire smiled at him. "You know I think everything you play is beautiful, Teddy."

Teddy grinned. "I know, but you're a good ego-booster."

Victoire laughed, shoving him. "Prat," she muttered fondly. "Did you write down the lyrics?"

Teddy passed the blue notebook sitting on top of the piano to her. He had memorized all the songs in there—he had written them, after all—so he had no use for it, but Victoire loved reading through it and asking him to play any song that caught her eye.

"A song about summer?" Victoire looked up from the songbook. "Or about all the seasons?"

"Just summer," Teddy told her, glancing down at the keys of the piano. "You know I've always loved it." Absently, he began playing a semi-familiar song, this one much slower than his usual works.

"Because of the two-month long vacation?" Victoire teased, resting her hand on his arm as he played. "Or something else?"

Teddy half-shrugged, focused on the music. Victoire waited until the song finished and he looked back up at her. "My parents got married in summer, you know," he said softly.

Victoire's hand slid down his arm to intertwine their fingers together. "I know." Her voice was quiet, but not a whisper. "Your mother looked beautiful."

Teddy smiled wistfully. "Yeah, I know. And Dad—that was the happiest I ever saw him, when he was with Mum."

"He had good reason to be," Victoire said. "Is this all you've written?"

"There's more," Teddy admitted, "but I haven't written down the lyrics yet. Here."

He untangled their fingers and began playing, the music resounding in the room. His hands flew expertly across the keys, so fast Victoire could hardly see them, and the midtempo verses slowly built to a stormier chorus, and only when the notes were soft and quiet again did the song end.

"That was amazing," Victoire told him. "You should really look into doing this seriously, you know."

Teddy smiled at her for a moment. "Everyone tells me that," he said. "Maybe I should."

"You should," Victoire said firmly. "You're amazing."

Teddy laughed, freeing a hand so he could brush back her strawberry blond hair. "This is what I meant when I said 'ego-booster'," he teased.

Victoire smacked his shoulder. "And this is what I meant when I said 'prat'," she retorted, but she was smiling.

Teddy grinned at her. "Thanks, anyway."

"What for?" Victoire asked, her smile brighter than before

"For…I don't know, for being there." Teddy shrugged, returning her smile. "Through all my writer's blocks and tantrums and everything. Thanks."

"Well, somebody has to do it." Victoire stuck her tongue out at him. "Lucky me, huh?"

Teddy tugged on a lock of her hair. "Brat," he laughed. "And you know you love it."

Victoire opened her mouth to answer, but Andromeda's voice echoed up, interrupting her. "Teddy, Victoire it's time for lunch!"

"Let's go, then," said Victoire, standing and brushing herself off before heading down the stairs.

"Tell Grandma I'll come in a minute," Teddy told her, twisting in his seat to offer her a grin.

"Will do," Victoire flashed him a smile. "But come down quick, or else I'll get all the cookies."

Teddy laughed, but didn't respond, staring after her as she descended the staircase and only turning back to the piano once she was out of sight. His gaze traveled above the black and white keys to the open window behind it. The curtains were pulled back, revealing a cloudless blue sky streaked with sunbeams, several of which sparkled directly in Teddy's eyes.

He looked back down at the piano keys, grinning. There was nothing quite like summer in England, especially when he had Victoire with him.

_Summer is the season for love and for trust_

_And victory will come only when it's just_

_Sun's in the sky and love's in the air_

_And maybe for me, if only I dare_


	3. Percy Weasley

**The Hardest Time  
**

_Percy Weasley  
_

**by Espoir Noir  
**

Summer was the hardest time.

Winter was Christmas and snow and firewhiskey and family. You could forget yourself for hours at a time in winter, when people crowded around you and laughed and teased and tried not to remember.

Autumn was falling leaves and piles of work and writing letters to nephews and nieces and cousins and second cousins at Hogwarts. You could force yourself to do other things in autumn, when people were back from holidays and nobody talked about anything except how much work there was to do.

Spring was budding flowers and romance and garden parties and planning. You could book your calendar up in spring and fall asleep from exhaustion at the end of the day and sleep without dreaming and wake up the next morning and do it all again.

Summer was the hardest. Summer was long days with nothing to do except remember. Summer was holidays and heat and that feeling of I can't be bothered doing anything except lying in this chair. Summer was crowded with children and get-togethers where adults looked at each other and raised their eyebrows and shook their heads and said We were never as bad as that.

Summer was remembering.

And he couldn't stand it. Sometimes, he would hear one of the boys laugh and he would think for a moment that maybe maybe maybe maybe it had all been a dream. Another one of their pranks. A hallucination. A spell of madness. But it never was. And it always seemed worse afterwards because just for a moment he had imagined that the world was right again.

After the funerals, they tried to pretend to get on with life. But in summer, the walls broke down and he would catch Ginny crying in the orchard, or see Bill staring blankly at a wall. And everything came back and he remembered why he'd tried to forget in the first place and even though it was almost too hot to be wearing clothes the world felt colder and greyer and he had to hang onto something to stop the world from spinning.

He knew it was his fault. Even though everybody told him that of course it wasn't and Don't be silly dear and There was nothing you could have done, he knew it was his fault. He was the traitor. He was the coward. He was the one that should have died. He wasn't a half of anybody and life could have gone on easily without him. He watched that moment over and over and over and over in his mind and changed it minutely every time. Just one sidestep. Just saying the punch line a moment earlier or a moment later. Just one tiny detail that would have made a difference between life and death.

Summer was a dead time. Even though the world seemed full of children again, he saw the grass growing browner with every passing day, and the leaves that couldn't be bothered moving without a breeze. And it seemed somehow fitting that this deadness reflected itself in every single thing he thought and every single memory that flashed through his mind.

Summer was punishment.

You could learn to sidestep away from pain with practice. And he had had plenty of practice. But in summer he forced himself to remember. He was the guilty one and he knew that he deserved the three months of heart crushing throat constricting lung tightening head hurting stomach churning knee weakening pain. He was suffocating in fresh air. He was pain and punishment all rolled into one neat bundle tied with a mischievous grin and a freckled nose.

Summer was the hardest time.


	4. Lily Evans

**Idiosyncrasies**

_Lily Evans  
_

**by -EHWIES**

He is poking her doorbell on the first day of summer with the distinct interest of a pureblood who's never taken Muggle Studies—or, at least, never paid much attention while enrolled—and she is sighing because she knew this would happen. She goes to the porch anyway, though, since her mother is yelling about solicitors and she knows Tuney would treat him horribly and, for that one fleeting second before she gets up from the table, she thinks—_hopes_—it might be Sev, even though she knows he would have thrown pebbles at her window instead.

She is groaning but he is grinning when she answers the door; he's got one hand on his Nimbus and the other in his hair. "I wish you'd stop doing that," she sighs in lieu of a greeting—but she doesn't close the door, with or without him inside.

Dumbfounded, he blinks at her before he answers, finally, "Doing what?"

"_That_," she says simply, gesturing wildly at him with her mouth in a thin line—because she doesn't know how to articulate that he looks so classic _James_ today, all Quidditch and confidence and windswept hair, and it makes her sick but it mostly makes her lonely.

He knows her well enough not to question an idiosyncrasy, though, and just leans against his broomstick and doesn't allow his smile to falter. "Are you going to let me in or what?" invites James Potter, because it's more of an offer than a request when he says it.

So Lily Evans accepts with resignation: "Do you like omelets? We're having breakfast."

Pushing the screen door open himself, he rests the broom against her mother's favorite armoire and vows to her, "I _love_ omelets."

Her father loves him, but her mother hates him. Lily herself isn't sure which of these she's happy about, so she just drinks her orange juice and tries not to laugh at Tuney's reactions to his markedly wizarding comments, and tries not to remember that summer is greasy hair and oily skin all hidden from the world in her backyard.

For the first few days, she never knows what to say—maybe because she thought she hated him, or maybe because she wasn't prepared for his incessancy, but mostly because she told him he makes her sick and then he started poking at her doorbell every day. Whichever way, he is back every morning at nine o'clock, and as long as he doesn't try to go outside, she supposes she's along for the ride.

It's okay, though, because James has enough words for the both of them, at least at first. He asks about her interests and her family and her future, and he lets her start the real conversation when she tells him she wants to fight.

All anyone really wants to do, he tells her, is to fight.

"My mum was a Black before she married Dad," he confides on the fourth day of summer, sprawled on his stomach across her twin bed with his face by her hands (but she doesn't mind, because lately she doesn't mind much). "Sirius's mum is my first cousin, actually… She wasn't one of the bad ones, though—Mum, not Walburga, I mean—she was a Ravenclaw, anyway. But she always had this mentality about blood purity, and she and Dad used to have fights about it, you know? When I was little. I remember sneaking into the kitchen to get a Chocolate Frog when I should've been in bed, and they'd be arguing—Mum wanted to have me betrothed to Dorcas Meadowes—you know Dorcas, she'll be a seventh year. Because she always thought it's all right to befriend Muggle-borns, just not to marry them."

Lily double-checks, "Your dad won out, though, right?" because he's never had a girlfriend, but he says that's because he's only ever wanted her; and she hopes that, when he doesn't mention the nervous wobble to her voice, it's because he didn't notice it.

"Well, he liked Dorcas, but not enough to force her on me. Not that Mum ended up minding in the end," he adds, scowling.

She quirks an eyebrow. "What happened?"

"Voldemort got both her parents after they became outspoken critics of the war—Mrs. Meadowes was a journalist for the _Daily Prophet_." James says it like he doesn't mean it, but Lily sees his eyes glowing with fiery anger. "So now Mum wants me to go into the Ministry, but I don't want to work somewhere I can't do anything _real_."

Lily—whose parents still half expect her to become a Muggle schoolteacher like she wanted to when she was young—understands completely, and tells him so. She won't admit, however, that she's glad he's not engaged to Dorcas Meadowes.

Not yet.

He looks a little baffled when she asks on the eighth day of summer why he hasn't tried to bring mates over. "You mean Padfoot?" he says, his hand back in his hair—his hand _always_ in his hair.

"And Pettigrew and Lupin. What is it you're calling each other these days? Marauders?" Lily prompts, and when he doesn't move a muscle from his perch on her bed, she reaches over and pulls his hand down herself.

James doesn't comment but won't let go. "I don't need mates. This is more than enough," he says, and maybe she doesn't believe it but mostly she does. Whichever way, she doesn't bring it up again, just keeps holding his hand.

They talk a lot about the war—maybe because his parents won't, or maybe because her parents can't, but mostly because it's somehow less personal than making the small talk he presses her for. He doesn't realize that she doesn't have a personal life, just Potions and Charms and her hopes to make Head Girl: Sev was her personal life, and that's gone now, isn't it?

And none of it really occurs to her until James kisses her mouth on the thirteenth day of summer and she doesn't kiss back and she doesn't pull away. It is June—it has always been her escape from getting As in Transfiguration and losing prefect in favor of Alice Abbott and knowing that people talk after she leaves a room. Summer has always been omelets and orange juice and hiding from the world in her backyard, but James doesn't like orange juice and comes up to her bedroom every morning at nine o'clock instead, and Lily isn't sure that she minds.

Whichever way, James doesn't try to kiss her again, and she is glad. "Thank you," she says, because he lets go and doesn't ask for more, and he knows her well enough not to question an idiosyncrasy he doesn't understand.

Instead, he asks her what's on her mind. "Dorcas Meadowes," she says, honest with him for once, and then goes on to deliver him a much-needed explanation of how doorbells work.

On the seventeenth day of summer, they have a picnic on Lily's front lawn—mostly because she doesn't care that this comes close to hiding from the world in her backyard.

Because summer is all Quidditch and confidence and windswept hair…


	5. Rose Weasley

**The Midsummer with Romeo  
**

_Rose Weasley  
_

**by RedCloakedMaiden**

'_Or else it it stood upon the choice of friends—_

_O hell! To choose love by another's eye._'

"Are you reading Aunt Hermione's complete works of Shakespeare?" Her cousin, Albus, asked as he suddenly appeared by her shoulder, glancing at the book in her lap.

"Yes, I am," Rose Weasley said calmly.

Al's green eyes glinted as he sat cross-legged next to her. "Really? Which one?" He urged.

"_**A Midsummer Night's Dream**_, if you must know," She tried to brush off the interuption and read Hermia and Lysander's laments to one another, but Albus wasn't fooled.

"I thought you didn't like romances," Albus accused her. Uncharacteristically, Rose considered hexing him, but he was acting annoyingly like James. "You've always said that Shakespeare used love to make his characters act really stupid—"

"Why aren't you off reading '_Lord of the Rings_' or '_The Chronicles of Prydain_' again?" She finally said waspishly. Albus looked stung and for a moment, it panged her, but it vanished when Albus didn't pry any further. He knew she would talk when she felt like it after knowing her for so many years.

"You're coming to the birthday party tonight?" Albus asked uncomfortably.

"Remind me why it's a week early for both of them?"

"Because Dad's Ministry friends will be hosting a party for him on his birthday and Neville and Hannah are taking next week off as vacation." Albus said promptly. "So you have to come because it's your uncle and honorary uncle's birthdays, plus Mum and the Malfoys said it was ok for Scorpius to come over _and_ the Scamanders came back from Kazakhstan two days ago and are invited."

"We'll be there at seven," Rose promised as Albus, mollified, descended down the ladder and back to the ground.

Rose idly flipped another page of the thick book on her knees and sighed noisily as she brushed back her unruly red curls. Summer really was the worst time of year for her hair, she decided. It made it frizzy from the humidity, the heat helped it grow faster and the sunlight brightened her hair from coppery, amber-hued to almost ruby-red. Deep down inside though, Rose knew that she was only musing on her hair to avoid considering the implications of Lysander Scamander being at the same place as her.

_Admit it Weasley… You could have read__** As You Like It**__ but you picked the romance with the name Lysander in it._

"Shut up," she growled to herself, but thankfully, nobody answered.

She had a crush on Lysander Scamander. And he had left for some foreign, funny-named country as soon as summer had started. Crushes and romance were not something Rose had ever considered before—that had been Dominique's department as far as Rose was concerned. So naturally, she hadn't mentioned the fact she liked him more than as a friend maybe before he left, but as Shakespeare said, _'I dote on his very abscene'._

Rose had never liked his romantic plays until this summer, but a line from the recently-read _**Romeo and Juliet**_ floated through her head. "_I fear too early; for my mind misgives some consequences yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels_."

***

Neville and Uncle Harry's joint birthday party is going well, but their reaction to how they liked their presents is the last concern on Rose's mind as she finally spotted Lysander through the throng of Weasleys and family friends that fill Grimmauld Place. Sneaking a glance to make sure her Mum is to absorbed in the party to notice, she sprung up and hurried out to catch up to him, brushing by Hannah Longbottom engaged in a conversation with an elderly-looking woman with square spectacles.

She meet up with him on the stairs as he is going down as she ran up to him.

"Oh, hello Rose," Lysander said brightly as she reached his side. "Weren't you just going up the stairs?" Merlin, did she look like an idiot for changing directions on the stairs just so she could strike up a conversation?

"Yes, but I'd much rather ask how your trip went!" Rose claimed. That was a nice touch, a good way to get them talking…

"Kazakhstan has an excellent community of Umgubular Slashkilters," Lysander said knowledgably. "It really is a perfect climate for them and a few local wizards showed us how to defend ourselves from them and where they live—did you know that they prefer wizarding flesh to Muggle? They can actually smell the difference—"

"So you just worked with the Ungrubby Slashandkillers the entire month?" Rose asked hopefully.

"Oh, of course not; there were some days that Rolf and Luna wouldn't let Lorcan and me come so we'd go to the village and I met a nice girl there—"

Rose missed a stair step and crashed four steps down to the landing. It took her a moment for the ceiling to stop spinning and another before Lysander's face was looking down as her's. "Are you alright?" He asked worriedly.

"Of course I am," Rose said bitterly as she gingerly got to her feet. "So, you met someone?" She asked, rubbing her elbow which had scraped the step on her fall.

"Yeah, I did." Lysander confessed. "Her name's Anya, and, well, we're not _dating_ but we promised to keep in touch. Did you know that they don't have owls over there for mail? They prefer to use swifts instead."

Rose's heart leapt from the pit of her stomach to her throat and that little voice from her brain screamed _Tell him! Tell him that you love him, tell him, Weasley!_

Instead she heard herself say, "That's really great, 'Sander. I'm actually seeing someone too."

Rose couldn't believe her own ears or mouth but Lysander obviously did. "Who?"

Right then, Albus and Scorpius came up the stairs towards Al's room.

"Scorpius," Rose said quickly. "I'm dating Scorpius Malfoy."

***

"Reading romance books, coming over while the Weasleys are here…you two have been dating each other and neither of you bothered to tell your best mate and cousin?" Albus ranted an hour later.

By some miracle, Lysander had swallowed her bluff and Scorpius, who had stopped dead with Albus on the landing when she uttered those bloody words, had played along when he noticed the wand she pointed at his face behind Lysander's back while Albus had stared at his two best friends gobsmacked. But now the party was over, Lysander had left and Scorpius, who was sleeping over in Albus's room, and Albus had promised her Mum that Rose would floo herself home and then corralled her into Albus's room for an explanation.

"I haven't dated _any_ of your cousins," Scorpius said indignantly. "She's the one who said it, not me!"

_Damn._

"Spill, Rosie, what secrets are you hiding?" Albus rounded on her. Scorpius sat on the bed, arms-crossed as he waited for an answer. Rose bit her lip, she was sure her cheeks were as red as her hair.

"I ah…"She began but trilled off. Then she mumbled it. "_I have a crush on Lysander._" Of course, neither of them heard what she had said. So she cleared her throat. "I have a bloody crush on Lysander!" She moaned, burying her hands into her hair. Albus took a step back and collapsed on his bed next to Scorpius, whose arms were uncrossed as he leaned against the wall.

"When you say, 'I have a crush'," Albus began hesitantly.

"Merlin, yes, I act like Dominique around him. I turn red, I giggle, I say stupid stuff." She said impatiently.

"By 'stupid stuff', you mean 'I'm dating Scorpius Malfoy', right?" Scorpius cut in.

"He's seeing a girl who lives in a country infested by Ungrubbly Slashandkillers," Rose grumbled. "I had to say something."

"It's Umgubular Slashkilters," Albus prompted. Rose rolled her eyes as Scorpius snorted.

"Scorpius, I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend," Rose pleaded desperately. He jerked in surprise.

"I thought we agreed that we're _**not**_ dating!" He argued.

"We aren't! And won't," Rose amended. "I just think that if someone were to make Lysander feel jealous, that I might be taken, he might realize that he really likes me—"

"I though you said he was dating someone," Albus pointed out.

"No, he and _Anya_ are just keeping in touch. Which means that I need Scorpius to be my boyfriend so they don't get any closer." Rose said stubbornly.

"And should that mean that you are _off-limits_ to him, Rosie?" Albus protested, but quickly quieted as he saw his cousin flare.

"And what's in it for me?" Scorpius demanded. "I get a pretend relationship in which I get dumped?" She eyed him disconcertingly.

"I'll throw in my autographed copy of _**A Team from Tutshill**_." She bargained.

***

At first, she worried how she'd get all three of them in the same room together, but the problem never occurs. When she got to the Burrow the next morning, Albus and Scorpius were already there playing chess in the living room and it is through the second game Rose watches them play does Lorcan Scamander floo in, ashes coating his dirty blond hair that he shares with his twin.

"Lorcan!" Albus said suddenly as he got up to help pull him from the fireplace. "What are you doing here?"

Lorcan coughed from the soot and rubbed off his glasses. "Mrs. Weasley invited us to come over today, Lysander's coming through right now," He said as he wandered through the swinging door into the kitchen.

The fire burned green as Rose flung herself into Scorpius's lap. "_**A Team From Tutshill**_," she hissed into his ear as she tries to think of things that seem 'datey'. Would brushing his hair back seem cute? Or what if she'd have to kiss him? Surely she wouldn't have to do _that_! Maybe if she just acted like Dominique does…

A moment later and Lysander emerged from green flames and black ashes grinning in delight as Albus and Scorpius vainly try to regain their game. Rose gave off a high shriek of laughter. "Oh, Scorpius!" she gasped. "That was so funny!" Scorpius looked nonplussed.

***

Two days later, James get wind of her and Scorpius's relationship; something she learns after he corners her in the pantry while she is looking for the chocolate syrup.

"So I hear you and that slimy git are dating," He began casually, blocking the only exit so she couldn't escape. Rose fought the urge to throttle him.

"Err, yes?" She offered weakly. James might curse Scorpius or he'd laugh at it all, she wasn't sure which. After all, she had never dated before and she was the first of James's younger cousins that he felt a Gryffindor-ish need to protect from the dangers of dating.

"Rosie Posie, you don't sound very sure," he taunted.

Her blue eyes turned to ice and she raised the bottle at his face and squeezed it, chocolate squirting everywhere into James's unsuspecting face as she stormed by him and into the kitchen where Albus and Scorpius are making sundaes.

She hears Albus say, "Rose, do you want Bertie Botts on yours?" before she is kissing Scorpius.

When she pulls away, there is James, coated in the ice-cream topping and looking dumbstruck at them and Albus is frozen, not realizing that the Bertie Botts are spilled all over the table.

Then Lysander bounded in, waving a letter.

"I'm going back to Kazakhstan! Rolf and Luna agreed that I could work there with the Umgubular Slashkilters and Anya's family is going to let me stay with them until school starts! Isn't that great?"

***

"So I guess that kiss was for nothing, right?" Scorpius said as soon as Lysander had flood home. Rose turned on him fast.

"I'll give you the book like I promised," she said through clenched teeth.

"I don't want it anymore," Scorpius said moodily.

"But," Rose said with a slight frown. "The _Tornadoes_ are your favorite team."

"Why don't you just promise to not use me to get other guys by pretending you like me then because I'd take that instead!" Scorpius snapped.

Rose flared up at that. "What then, _Malfoy_? You don't like having to put up with me as anything more than a friend? Am I not pretty enough for you or is it something else?"

"You know what?" Scorpius shouted. "Just forget it!" He said angrily as he stomped towards the fireplace. Albus came running in then, skidding on the carpet and staring at the two of them.

"Guys, what is—"

"Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire!" Scorpius said shortly as he flooed out of there.

-

Twenty-five hours and twenty-six minutes since her first kiss and twenty-three hours and eighteen minutes since Lysander left the Burrow to pack again for Kazakhstan and she stopped pretending to be Scorpius's girlfriend. Twenty-three hours and fourteen minutes since she and Scorpius had fought and left their friendship in pieces.

Life sucked right then. Or in Shakespearan terms, "_How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seems to me all the uses of the world_!"

Albus had prodded the story out of her as usual and had flooed himself over to Scorpius's house and stayed the night there but Scorpius hadn't sent any apology letter by his owl yet so whatever they had done last night, it hadn't involved Albus calming Scorpius down.

-

Three days since she had last seen Scorpius did Albus climb up the ladder to her treehouse, finding his cousin reading Shakespeare again.

"Which one?" Albus asked patiently. Rose didn't spare him a glance.

"_**Othello**_. It's got a girl who loves a guy who would do anything for him, but one boy tries to screw up her relationship and her husband kills her." She informed him. "It's a good example of how guys are stupid and cause most of the tragedies in girls' lives."

"Right, Rose, but for once, it was a girl who screwed up."

"What?" She protested. "Desdemona didn't do anything!"

"Not Desdemona—you!"

"Me?"

Albus sighed and stared glumly at his feet. "Rose, Scorpius, well, he has a crush on you."

"_What_?"

"For quite a while now, actually. Obviously, with you in love with Lysander, he didn't want to say anything, but then you kissed and dumped him…" Albus trailed off significantly at the end and looked up at her keenly.

Rose turned her blue eyes downward at the wooden planks. _Scorpius was in love with her?_

"He's at the Burrow right now." Al continued then.

Rose was knocking on the door to her Dad's old room. Nowadays, it was her and Albus's childhood hideout at the Burrow and currently where Scorpius was sulking.

"Scorp?" Rose called out, her heart thudding. "We need to talk."

There was no audible reply, but the door clicked open and she gently pushed it forward, glancing back at Albus on the landing as he mouthed, "_Go get him, Rosie."_

Scorpius was stretched out on the old, tangerine-faded bed, his back towards her as if he had never gotten up to unlock the door.

"Look," She started desperately. "I'm sorry I used and then dumped you for Lysander, but I didn't realize that you liked me—"

Scorpius shot up in the bed, looking alarmed. "Liked you? What are you talking about?"

"Albus said that you had a crush on me," Rose stated.

"Albus said that you were using the 'I have a crush on Lysander' as an execuse to go out with _me_." Scorpius said firmly.

It took them about a minute, but then they lunged for the door. Neither of them were fast enough to grab the knob before it clicked shut.

"ALBUS!" Rose bellowed. "You let us out—"

Albus's muffled voice came through the wall then. "Sorry, but I won't. You two mean too much to me to let you not realize that you two are really good together."

"You set us up so we'd start dating!" Scorpius shouted.

"This is from _**Much Ado About Nothing**__,_ Rosie!" Albus shouted back cheerfully. "_Speak cousin, or if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss and let him not speak either_!"

"And I will _Pinch you and burn you and turn you about till candles and starlight and moonshine be out_!" Rose shrieked back as Albus could be heard tramping down the stairs. "That was _**The Merry Wives of Winsdor**_, Albus Severus Potter!"

But there was no response this time and so Rose turned back to Scorpius.

"So now what?" She asked him dully. "We forgive, forget, go back to being friends who trade witty lines back and forth at each other?"

"I think Albus might be right." Scorpius said quickly.

"You are _agreeing_ with that traitor?"

"Maybe." He acknowledged. "I mean, we both love flying, playing Quidditch, reading, and we know we are equal in insulting each other, plus I think…" he turned pale pink and stopped, but she stared him down, lifting her left eyebrow up until he cracked. "I think you are pretty, Rose. And I really liked that kiss."

She stared at him and managed to utter. "I do like blonds. And that kiss." She amended.

"So…" Scorpius started awkwardly. "Do you…I mean—Are you and I?"

Rose kissed him agreeably, effectively shutting him up. "On two conditions," She said. "Kill Albus for me."

"Ok."

"And I don't want to end up with a dagger to my heart." She concluded as she kissed the confused look off his face. "_**Romeo and Juliet**_."

Scorpius mumbled then. "Just come and kiss me, Rose and we'll tell our families before the wedding."

* * *

**The following quotes used in this story all belong to Shakespeare:**

'_Or else it it stood upon the choice of friends—O hell! To choose love by another's eye._' : _**A Midsummer Night's Dream**_

_"I dote on his very absence." :__**The Merchant of Venice**_

"_I fear too early; for my mind misgives some consequences yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels_.": _**Romeo and Juliet**_

_"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seems to me all the uses of the world_!" : _**Hamlet**_

_"Speak cousin, or if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss and let him not speak either_!":_**Much Ado About Nothing**_

_"Pinch them and burn them and turn them about till candles and starlight and moonshine be out_!": _**The Merry Wives of Windsor**_

_"Come and kiss me, Kate"_**:**_**The Taming of the Shrew**_


	6. Lysander Scamander

**Summer Snowflake  
**

_Lysander Scamander  
_

**by Astrea Severin Orion Black  
**

"You're staring again, Ly," chortled Lorcan, nudging his twin in the side. Hard.

Lysander flinched and inched away from his brother. Embarrassed, he tore his eyes away from her. "Why do you have to hit me so hard, Lor?"

"I don't hit hard," said Lorcan, "You're just a wimp, is all."

Lysander sighed heavily and set his head in his hand again. He forced his eyes to not again stray to Lily, knowing someone was bound to notice and tell her. Or, she would notice. Which would be so much more humiliating.

"For the love of all that is adventurous in this world, Ly!" said Lorcan, huffing. "Just tell the girl and get it over with."

"I _can't, _Lor!" replied Lysander. "You know I can't."

Lorcan just rolled his eyes. "Coward," he muttered.

Lysander ignored Lorcan and his eyes again strayed to her. To her red hair and beautiful laughing face as she listened to Rose reenact a scene from some Muggle film.

It was summer break and the Scamanders twins were staying at the Burrow while their mum and dad were off in Swaziland, Africa looking for an Ersiant Sharptooth that some villagers had said they'd seen.

Lysander knew it was probably yet another false alert and he was a bit angry about it. He had wanted to spend quality time with his parents, because he hadn't been able to these last couple years. He and Lorcan were at Hogwarts most of the year and when they had holidays, they couldn't be sure that their explorer parents would be able to come.

Of course, Lorcan wasn't angry for that reason. He was the type who couldn't sit still very long or he would get jittery. Lorcan wanted to go to Swaziland, but Mum had said no right off the bat. Dad wouldn't have minded, but it wasn't Dad's decision.

"If you're going to sit here and be a little coward, I'm going to Wheezes," said Lorcan, strutting to the fireplace.

Just before he disappeared, Lysander yelled, "Not everyone can be a Gryffindor like you, you prat!"

Everyone turned to Lysander and he blushed, deciding it would be best to just sit in his room as he scurried up the stairs.

* * *

Lysander was sitting in his bed in Uncle George's old room, a book resting on his lap, when Albus and Scorpius entered the room. Scorpius glanced down the staircase quickly before firmly shutting the door. He tapped it and Lysander heard a squelching sound. Lysander raised an eyebrow in Scorpius's direction.

"_Colloportus. _So no one can get in," said Scorpius.

Lysander set his book beside him. "Couldn't whoever wanted to get in just use _Alohomora_?"

"If they want to get stunned, yeah," said Scorpius. "_Muffliato_."

Lysander glanced at Albus. The raven-haired nineteen-year-old was just standing there, cleaning his glasses nonchalantly, completely ignoring the fact that his best mate was setting up 'precautions'.

"What's going on?" asked Lysander slowly, glancing between the two. He didn't like this. Not at all. Did they know? Oh Merlin, he hoped they didn't know.

Albus put his glasses back on and looked Lysander straight in the face, green eyes to silver. "Scor and I have been chatting lately. We've come to a realization..."

Lysander nearly gasped. They knew.

"…and we've come to help you," finished Albus, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. Lysander sat there a moment, his brain trying to process what Albus had just said.

Scorpius laughed. "Merlin, Lysander, don't look so excited."

"I-I just don't know what…" stuttered Lysander. He needed to get his bearings.

"I know you like my sister," continued Albus. "It's so obvious. Every time you look at her, it's written all over your face."

"And you're going to…help me?" whispered Lysander, his face warm.

"S'pose so," smirked Albus, plopping down on the faded scarlet bed covers. Scorpius leaned against the door and crossed his arms, watching in the detached way he was rather good at. "You're so bloody shy, if I don't help, some boy will have taken her out from under your nose."

"What do I do, though?" asked Lysander.

"First," said Albus, pulling a small notebook and pencil from his shirt pocket, "You have to strike up a conversation."

* * *

Lysander stepped out of the backdoor of the Burrow and looked up. It was one of those rare days when all the Weasleys and Potters were at the Burrow, so they had decided on a Quidditch match. Lily was Seeker.

At that very second, she was racing Louis in a near complete downward spiral to the Snitch glinting just a foot off the ground. Her dark red hair whipped around her face, her hair tie nowhere in sight. Lysander's heart skipped at the glee on her face and in her chocolate brown eyes.

Louis was three years older, but Lily was smaller. Pushing forward with a final burst, Lily reached out a hand and snagged the Snitch as she jerked the end of her broom up. Legs clenched to her broom, her knees just skimmed the ground as she screamed out and threw her arms into the air.

"You owe a _big _bag of Dots and Drooble's Bubblegum!" hollered Lily to James, who was currently glaring in Louis's direction. Everyone settled on the ground and flooded into the kitchen, hungry. Lysander stepped aside so as not to be knocked into. Lily flew around a little more, before jumping off her broomstick, and depositing it with the pile accumulated by everyone else in the middle of the yard.

She released the Snitch and skipped to the house. Lysander straightened himself, drawing his shoulders back. Albus's first rule: _No slouching. Make yourself known._ This was it.

"H-hullo, Lily," he choked out. Oh, hell…He pressed his lips together, feeling the familiar blush begin to creep onto his face.

But, Lily didn't seem to notice his strangled greeting. She stopped and smiled brightly at Lysander, as if seeing him made her day that much better. "Hi, Ly!" she said, giggling at herself.

"How…" _Rule 2: Speak clearly and confidently._ "How are you?" said Lysander. He sighed inwardly. That wasn't much louder than how he usually sounded. Sorry Al, thought Lysander.

"I'm doing fine, thanks," said Lily. "How've you been?"

"Good. I-I've, uh, been doing stuff…reading and, you know, other…stuff," sputtered Lysander. Could he make himself look any denser?

Lily's smile was a little awkward. "That's, uh, good, Ly. I haven't seen you around much, because you always run up to your room and we don't talk all that much."

It was obvious she wanted to leave. Lysander could just feel it radiating off her. "Y-yeah, I have a few really nice books…Can't put them down and…yeah. You must want to eat. You should go before all the food is gone."

"Yeah, I guess. Bye, Ly."

* * *

Lysander smacked himself in the forehead a couple more times, before Albus wrenched the book from his hands. Scorpius shook his head, exasperated. Albus had dragged Scorpius from his quality Rose-time to have another little meeting with Lysander, and Scorpius wasn't too ecstatic about the idea.

"That, it seems, did not go as well as we thought it would," said Albus, crossing a few things off his list.

"What now?" sighed Lysander. His eyes were fixated out the window, another Quidditch match taking place.

Albus tapped Lysander's chin, breaking the latter's stare. "It didn't work, so we'll try a different approach. Give her something that she would know as the typical 'I like you' gift. Flowers, candy…"

"Dots and Drooble's Bubblegum?" asked Lysander.

"Yes!" exclaimed Albus, grinning. "She does also like flowers. Her name _is _Lily, after all. Her favorite, I believe, is the Summer Snowflake, also known as a Loddon Lily." Albus sniggered at that.

"We're going to the store, aren't we?" said Scorpius, frowning.

* * *

Lily was sitting in the front room the next day, flipping through a book. Hugo had gone to work with Aunt 'Mione, to check out what it was like. Going into their seventh year in a month, Lily and Hugo had to think of their future. Lily was lazing around on that particular day, though.

Lysander took a deep breath and rounded the corner, two medium sized bags of her favorite candy tied to a vase of Summer Snowflakes hidden behind his back.

He cleared his throat and Lily glanced up. She smiled. "Hi, Ly, what d'you need?"

Trying to keep the blush from his face, he moved the vase and candies to front and center, watching as Lily's eyes widened significantly. "For you," he whispered.

She jumped up and strode over to him. "For me, Ly? Really? What for?"

"Uh," said Lysander, suddenly tongue-tied. "I-I…Albus thought you'd like it."

Her face fell. "Al suggested it? That was sweet of him for thinking of me. Tell him thanks, won't you?"

Lysander felt like crying right there. Lorcan had been right all along. Lysander Scamander was a complete and utter dunce. Lily took the gift that Lysander had gotten her, even if she thought it was from Al, and put them on the table beside her seat. She gave Lysander a small, barely noticeable, smile and returned to her book without a second glance, leaving him to trudge out of the room, feeling like the most idiotic person alive.

* * *

Lysander was cleaning his room, or rather his twin's side of the room, when the door slammed open, bouncing off the wall as it left a dent. James was standing there menacingly, tall and angry-looking. Lysander lay down the duster he had in his hand and inwardly cowered, wondering why the eldest Potter was so upset.

"I have a bone to pick with you," growled James. He strode over to Lysander until their faces were but an inch apart.

"Uh, y-yes?" squeaked Lysander. James smelled of sulfur, but that was not unusual for him and it would've been more overwhelming, had it not been that they were in a room that always had several faint scents in the air.

"I've been thinking, and I want to make something very clear before you get any ideas into that blonde-haired head of yours," said James. "I've seen the way you've been hanging around Lils lately, and I've got two words for you: _Back off_."

"W-what do you m-mean?" said Lysander. Holy hobgoblins, did _everyone _know?

"Don't play dumb with me, Scamander!" bellowed James, talking a handful of the front of Lysander's shirt, causing the younger to flinch.

"Why don't _you _back off, James?" said a voice at the door. James whirled around to face Albus, Scorpius, and Rose.

"Why should I?" asked James. "I'm not letting this petty prat make any moves on our little sister! Did you know that's what he's been doing the past two days?"

"Yeah," said Albus calmly. "I've been helping him, too."

James' jaw dropped and he looked ready to clobber Albus. "Ly, why don't you go downstairs with Rose?" said Albus.

"He isn't going _anywhere_!" James' face was tomato red. Lysander knew he might explode at any second.

"How are you going to stop him?" asked Albus, as he and Scorpius pulled their wands out.

* * *

"James is the king of going overboard," muttered Rose angrily.

Lysander and Rose were in the sitting room, sitting cross-legged from one another. There had been hollering and a few loud crashes from upstairs for a good ten minutes or so, before James had stormed downstairs and Floo'd to Wheezes, glaring murderously in Lysander's direction. Albus and Scorpius had joined the two after they had fixed the damage done to the twin's room.

"Hasn't he always been?" asked Albus, biting into a bar of chocolate. Scorpius had his arm around Rose's shoulder, staring at the ceiling, and not really bothering to give any of his witty comments. Rose was about to throw in her hand of cards in the disaster that was Lysander trying to get Lily to date him.

"_Anyway_, now that we are off the subject of James," said Rose, turning all of her attention to Lysander. "We have your problem to deal with. I have come up with the perfect idea. Perfect, unless you mess it up, Ly."

Lysander looked at his hands. "So," continued Rose, "I am going to herd Lily outside tonight while everyone is too busy, just about the time the house settles down and it nears bedtime. I'll tell her I want to talk to her and then when we are out there, I will say that I forgot something and have her stay there while I 'go get it'. Are we clear so far?" Lysander nodded.

"Okay. Then, I'll send you out with yet _another _bag of Drooble's Bubblegum and this time, a single flower. I trust that you not trip over yourself, and since it will be dark, I don't suppose she'll notice you blush. You give her the gum and flower and tell her that it's from you, as was the other gift of candy and flowers. Then, you lean in and kiss her."

Lysander blanched. "_That's _your brilliant plan? What if she pushes me away?"

"Then you can get over it and move on," said Scorpius, tilting his head forward to look fully at Lysander. "That's how I did it with Rose. I gave her a bag of sugar quills and roses, and then I leaned in and kissed her. Luckily for me, she went with it and now look at us!"

Scorpius turned to Rose and their lips locked, Scorpius's grip tightening on her shoulder. Lysander blushed fiercely. He was almost seventeen, but he'd only kissed a girl once in his life, and that had been an accident. He couldn't imagine purposely kissing Lily.

Albus clapped his hands together, effectively breaking up the couple, who appeared on the brink of full out snogging. "Let's get to it, then!"

* * *

It was nighttime. Lysander watched nervously as Rose went over to Lily and whispered in her ear. Lily gave Rose a curious look, but jumped up and followed, telling someone to finish her chess match with Hugo.

Once the girls had disappeared through the kitchen and out the door, Albus grabbed his ear, the signal, and Lysander stood. James glared at Lysander, but he ignored James and went to stand at the kitchen window. Rose and Lily disappeared behind a tree, and Lysander became jittery. A minute passed and Rose was running full kilter toward the house, her long legs pushing her, as she yelled something to Lily.

Rose banged through the door. Handing Lysander the flower, with a decent sized bag attached to it, she shoved him outside. "Don't mess this up or I'll wring your bloody neck!" she hissed into his ear. She slammed the door and Lysander was suddenly alone, and scared.

For a second he was paralyzed, but a sharp rap on the door's windowpane got him moving. He walked slowly, listening to the crickets. The sky was cloudless; a waxing moon surrounded by millions of stars brightening the sky in a magnificent luster as a warm wind rustled the trees and ruffled Lysander's scraggly blonde hair.

He finally reached the tree and shuffled nervously to the side Lily was sitting at, her chocolate brown eyes sparkling with starlight as she stared aimlessly into the sky. He slid the gift slightly behind him as Lily realized she wasn't alone and looked his way.

She frowned and his heart fell. "Hi, Ly," she murmured, glancing away.

"I have something for you," whispered Lysander, stepping closer to her. She stood, her head tilted slightly. He swiftly stuck the gift out to her.

"More gum and another flower," said Lily, taking it tentatively. "Did Al suggest this too?"

"N-no, I did," said Lysander. "T-the last gift was, uh…from me t-too. I really li…" but his words was cut off as Lily suddenly pressed her lips to his.

Lysander's heart stopped and his body tensed. Lily tried to move away, thinking something was wrong, but he grabbed her and pressed himself against her, entwining his hands into her long hair. Lily gasped against his lips, but wrapped her arms around her neck, standing on her tiptoes.

She smelled of vanilla. Her lips were soft, and tasted like Dots and bubblegum. A breeze flowed past them lazily, warm on the summer night, where they could be found.

Lysander drew back slightly and breathed, "I love you, Lily."


	7. Lavender Brown

**Lazy Summer Days  
**

_Lavender Brown  
_

**by Dramione Forever  
**

Lavender walked down the corridor quickly. She was supposed to have met him five minutes ago, but she had been too busy talking with Parvati that she had failed to realise the time. Lavender saw the entrance to the courtyard up ahead and broke out into a full-on run. Her fears of being extremely late, meeting him could turn out to be unfounded. She would only be a little late for their meeting.

She took the courtyard steps two at a time and then she ran swiftly across the courtyard. Once at the grass, Lavender saw the tree shift into her vision and she grinned to herself, as the tree was their meeting point. Only one day of term remained until they headed home for the summer holidays, and as beautiful as the days were getting, Lavender couldn't help but find herself a bit sad.

Once Lavender reached the tree, she stopped and leaned over, realising she needed to catch her breath. When she felt able to walk without wheezing, she looked up and saw that he was standing against the tree, grinning. She shook her head, but couldn't stop from grinning back at him. Lavender walked over and stopped just a few feet in front of him.

"I am so sorry that I'm late, Seamus," she said apologetically. "I lost track of time as I was talking to Parvati."

Seamus shook his head. "It's ok, Lavender, don't worry about it," he said.

Lavender smiled at him, thankful. Seamus stepped in front of her, closing the space between them.

"Come on," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the lake.

"Seamus**,**" she started. And as she was about to ask him to make sure he wrote her over the summer, she was splashed with water. He ran away the minute the water hit her. She stood shocked for a few minutes, processing what he had just done.

Suddenly she burst out laughing and she began to run after him.

"Seamus, I am going to kill you," she exclaimed. She heard him laughing up ahead.

"Only if you can catch me," he shouted over his shoulder. Lavender smiled, knowing that she would love it when he got wet instead. She broke out into a run after him. Both of them ran alongside the lake. Lavender knew that if she timed it right she could push him into the lake which would even the score between them. While she was running, she gained on him every moment until they were neck and neck. She waited for the right moment then she threw herself into him, knocking him into the lake. The surprise was clear on his face as he fell into the lake and she giggled as she stood on the side of the lake watching him. He was drenched.

He tugged on her robes which caused her to fall into the lake with him. It took her a minute to realise that she was falling. She stared at him in surprise. She was now as wet as he was.

"You do realise that we will get into so much trouble for this," she said to him, turning to look at him as she did.

"Only if we get caught," he replied, grinning impishly at her. She laughed and he laughed along with her. He grinned, pulled himself out of the water, and then he held out his hand for her to take so he could help her to her feet. She smiled at him and slid her hand into his.

They walked away from the lake, hand in hand. After they had left the lake, Seamus pulled out his wand, muttering the drying spell he dried his clothes. Lavender then took her wand and did the same. Turning back towards the lake, he picked up a small rock and let it skim across the lake. Lavender picked up a rock and did the same; her effort skimmed across the water a little, but then disappeared from view.

Her efforts were never as good as his were. They smiled at each other.

"Do you want to go and sit by the tree for a little while?" he asked her. Looking at him, she nodded. They began to walk, reaching the tree in no time at all. Both of them sat down against it.

"It's a beautiful day," Lavender said as she looked up at the sky.

"Yes it is," he said in reply as he turned up at the sky as well. He looked back at her.

"I can't believe that it's summer already," he sighed.

"Yeah, I am going to miss seeing you every day," she replied softly.

Lavender looked over at him; he was staring at the ground intensely. Lavender could tell something was annoying him. She banged her shoulder into his gently to get his attention, and he looked up at her as she knew he would. She smiled at him.

"We'll still write to each other like we do every summer," she said. He nodded.

"Of course," he said in agreement.

She definitely knew that something was bothering him now, as he had not sounded as enthusiastic as she had hoped he would. Lavender bit her lip, worried about her friend, silently counting to two in her head. She was tossing up her options about what to do and then she spoke not able to take it any longer.

"Seamus, what's wrong?" she asked him. He stayed silent, not answering her straight away. Raking a hand through his hair, he took a long deep breath. Then he turned to look at her.

He stared into her eyes and gulped, losing his nerve to talk to her slightly. Shaking his head, he chuckled to himself silently. Lavender was one of his best friends, he could tell her anything. _Anything but this_, he thought to himself. If he told her this it could change their friendship for the better or it could completely destroy it. He shook his head once more. Lavender had noticed his strange behaviour the last couple of minutes. Her nervous eyes never left his face.

"Seamus," she said the concern that she felt for him clear in her voice. She reached over and put her hand on top of his.

Feeling her hand touch his, he took another deep breath. He had made up his mind now. It was time, he decided, that he told her. He stared into her eyes once more, smiling at her slightly. Then he spoke.

"Lavender, there is something that I have to tell you," he said to her nervously. She squeezed his hand, which spurred him on to tell her. He took another deep breath. "I love you as more than a friend," he said. "I have loved you this way for more than a year but I was just too scared to tell you." After he said this, he stopped talking.

Seamus stared at her, trying to gauge her reaction to what he had just said. He could imagine that she was a little shocked so he gave her a few minutes to digest this new information.

Lavender stared at him as this news began to sink in. He loved her as more than a friend. He felt the same way about her as she felt about him. Her change of feelings towards him had surprised her at first when she realised a year ago that she felt differently about him. She had been taken back slightly but it soon became clear to her why she loved him as she did each day that she spent with him. Every night she counted down the hours until she saw him again. Only the fear of losing him and losing their friendship had kept her silent about her feelings.

She remained silent, which only made him more nervous. He had blown it. _He_ _had lost his best friend_, he thought to himself quickly. He fidgeted with his fingers, wishing that she would just say something. Say anything. This silence was killing him.

Lavender was feeling the same way - she couldn't take this silence any longer. So, she giggled. She could not help it. Seamus stared at her, puzzled by her reaction. He opened his mouth to ask her why she was giggling, when she threw her arms around him and hugged him. He didn't move; he was in such shock that he couldn't even put his arms around her, even as his brain screamed that he should.

A minute later she suddenly stopped giggling, she pulled back from him. He saw that she was blushing.

"Sorry," she said, her face turning redder still. He watched as she took a deep breath.

"Seamus, I love you too," she said, smiling. He reached over and slid his hand into hers, relief coursing through him.

"Will you be my girlfriend?" he asked her. She felt that his hands were becoming sweaty; he was still nervous even now. Lavender smiled and nodded at him.

"I would love to be your girlfriend, Seamus," she replied.

Seamus' face broke out into a grin. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. It was such a sweet gesture from him and she was surprised when she felt the prick of tears at the corner of her eyes. She blinked them away, she did not want to ruin this romantic moment by crying. Instead, she smiled at him.

Later in the afternoon, Seamus sighed as he realised that they would have to return to the castle shortly. It was getting late.

"We'll have to go back soon," he said to her. She looked at him and nodded.

"I know, and I still have lots of packing to do," she said regrettably. They stayed still for a minute, just staring at each other. Both of them didn't want to ruin the moment, at least not for a little while longer. A few minutes later Seamus sighed again and got to his feet. He shook the grass from his robes and then he held out his hand to help Lavender to her feet.

Lavender smiled up at him as she took his outstretched hand. "I wish we didn't have to go back to the castle then have to leave for vacation now," she said softly.

"I know, I feel the same," he said in reply. They started to walk back to the castle side by side. Lavender slid her hand into his as they walked.

"We can still write to each other every day," she said happily. Seamus laughed.

"Twice a day even," he said, then he laughed again.

They continued to walk together, both growing silent. Suddenly, Seamus grinned.

Lavender noticed that he was grinning. "What?" she asked him. He remained silent, knowing that she would grow impatient.

"Seamus, tell me please," she pleaded with him. He smiled.

"I bet you five galleons that I can beat you to the courtyard," he said with a mischievous grin.

She smiled back at him. "You're on," she said.

Suddenly Seamus ran away, laughing. Lavender smiled; she had always loved lazy summer days, but she loved them even more so now, she thought to herself silently. Seamus shouted her name which shook her out of her thoughts.

"Come on," she heard him shout in the distance before he took out running again. She smiled once more and then she ran after him.


	8. Argus Filch

_Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player _

_That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, _

_And then is heard no more. It is a tale _

_Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, _

_Signifying nothing. _

**- Macbeth

* * *

**

**Loathing  
**

_Argus Filch  
_

**by Picassini**

Argus Filch had known no other home than Hogwarts.

They did not know Hogwarts, those vile crotch-droppings who traipsed like royalty through it, absorbed in their petty, meaningless, worthless little lives and the trivialities that attended thereof. Students, they called themselves! Phew... and he'd console himself by oiling the manacles that had once been used to keep transgressors in line. In the good old days of course.

What did _they _know of magic, those spoilt children who thought themselves so high-and-mighty because they could light a candle with a swipe of their fine sticks? How could _they _connect with the structure and the spirit of Hogwarts, the cadence of the slowly thumping heartbeat of the castle and the imperceptible melody of whispering stone and creaking wood? Hogwarts was magic, the only magic that had never reared it's ugly head against him.

The flagstones were not cold and unforgiving as ungrateful, stumbling, bumbling firsties declared. They were warm and soft when he knelt to mop them and he would swear on _Nature's Nobility _that they purred - catlike - when they were squeaky-clean. The twisting, twining staircases were not a challenge to be overcome, they were like gambolling kittens that had to be pleasured.

But what would _they_, who spent seven years learning naught but to sneer at their elders and make love to mincing girls who'd be heavy with another generation of pestilence before long, know of magic? They whose hearts were bound to other, breathing hearts? The invisible heart, hidden under layers of stone and wood, that was so much to him, was nothing to them.

He loathes summer, when he's exiled - yes exiled - to the cottage at Mold-on-the-Wold. Doxies lurk in the folds of the grimy tapestries and cobwebs lace over the cracked windowpanes, while the weeds tangle over the rusted fence. Mildew greens the rainwashed-grey walls. He fills a cracked butter-dish with wildflowers and tries not to look at anything else. But there are the neighbours with their false smiles of sympathy and their barbed, honeyed courtesies - "Why how good to see you again, Argus. How's the job going? Caretaker's job is no easy business but someone's got to do it."

Yes, and who better than the ignoble Squib, that black mark on an impeccable bloodline?

And summer is the time he remembers the little eleven-year-old boy who'd go picking wildflowers at dawn for his mother. The little boy with the wind-tousled curls who'd hope against hope that today the letter _would _come, that it was just possible that even though magic hadn't ever sparked through him, there was the chance...

But the summer came and the summer went and with it, his boyhood.


	9. Irma Pince

**When the Temperature Rose in Scotland  
**

_Irma Pince  
_

**by Anachronistic Anglophile  
**

Something stirred beside Irma Pince, and, before her eyes opened, she shuddered, for she was startled. As her lashes rose, her line of sight met only the darkness of the wall, rose-pink in daylight, but only a silvery hue in the unborn dawn. Her breasts heaved as she sensed the heavy, claustrophobic, asphyxiating heat of the room, and she gingerly turned herself over to regard her bed-partner.

He did not snore. It was with a dainty shrug of her angular shoulder that she dismissed this; he had been a spy, after all, and likely he slept with one figurative eye open even his most deep sleep, like the dragon. Irma minded little, but she hoped that her getting-up before sunrise would not awake him. Severus was yet so thin, so brittle, and so unhealthy in mind and body that she was very keen on not disturbing his sleep.

The room, however, was unbearably hot, having been insulated for the coldest days of Scotland's December, and there they were in the middle of muggy August! Temperature had not bothered her when they entered hours before; she was a bit tipsy, and he was (as always) cool as a frozen cucumber. After a dry sherry to justify the invitation to her room and the unmistakable signs of lust on both sides, she had even less reason to think about the affect of the weather on her bedroom's atmosphere. Suffice it to say, while their love-making was of the gentler, more refined kind, it quite distracted her from paying any attention to the thermostat.

Never having removed her slip—for to do so, even in her unique situation, was quite unladylike—she found it most convenient for smoothly moving out from under the oppressive coverlet. Descending carefully to the wood-plank floor from the high four-poster in perfect silence, achieved by two decade's residence, she padded to the bay window, wincing at the quiet cracking noise of her joints as she settled on the bench. She refused to admit that she might be getting old. Fifty-two was _not_ old.

Severus' figure seemed more flush from afar, she decided, though this was possible possibly because of the thickness of the bed-clothes. Her Irish grandmother's ancient quilts, her Dutch mother's hand-knitted lace covers, and the down comforter made from her great-uncle's old geese farm near Dublin made for a cozy bed. If it were not so insufferably warm, she would be seized with the desire to wrap herself in these materials made with love, as if to absorb the affections of their makers.

To be quite honest with herself, she thought as she threw up the sash on the window, there was something else on that mattress that she madly wanted to embrace. Only, her main concern was that he would not understand, that he would revoke her gesture.

* * *

She had not intended to bed him that night. Freed but recently from his starchy-white hospital chamber, a survivor by only a miracle of a lethal snake bite, Severus Snape had returned to Hogwarts one last time to retrieve his personal belongings. This simple intention was thwarted, for he was met by 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' and much celebration in his honor. The fact is, he had confessed to her when the focus on him had died down, the whole thing was 'rather embarrassing', and it showed in his face.

He was too tired to be rude, it seemed to her, when he entered the Great Hall. Of course, he was startled out of his wits by the gathering of students, alumni, and teachers who met him so vociferously, but Irma sensed that there was more than just the ache of a long-winded recovery to his quietness. Without a word, he seemed to float between guests, smiling half-heartedly at anecdotes, congratulations, jokes, etc., never contributing more than the briefest of comments. Most thought that the whole thing had just swept him away, but Irma, who had been watching him for such a long time, thought that he seemed broken. A scrape so close to death—and over two months in the hospital afterwards—might have a similar effect upon other people. Nonetheless, Irma thought that if he were whole, he would not tolerate the sight of the despondent figure in his mirror.

Tears came to her eyes when she saw him. It was not the first time she had seen him since his attack, for she, among others, had visited him at the hospital once he was well enough to receive the idle and interested. She sent him interesting books, too, because she was certain that the hospital's stock of literature was supremely limited, though she did this anonymously.

He knew who it was, nonetheless, and as soon as the mire of people had dissipated from around him, he approached her, and told her that she was a decent lady to have thusly thought of him. She said, quite fiercely, that she had no idea what he was referring to, but somehow he did not believe her. Whether it was the flush of her cheeks or the senseless rummaging through her purse, her actions spoke louder than words.

His next words surprised her; he said he thought a lot about her, and said that he had wondered about her when he was ill. She gave him something to think about, he said, beyond the lovely books she sent. And now he was interested in talking to her, he added, because while his prior, more arrogant self had never bothered to speak but perfunctorily to the homely librarian, his newer edition was not quite so inhumane.

Did he think himself arrogant? She asked him, surprised. That had never struck her mind as an adjective applicable to him. He said, yes, he most assuredly had been arrogant, and worse. Why the sudden change, she queried with some sarcasm, but his bottomless eyes kindly informed her that he was serious. Aloud, he said that his illness had led him to think a good deal about other things, aside from her and the books she sent. He apologized after this comment, which incidentally proved to her that his metallic wit and callous satire (both of which she admired) still lay dormant, and that cheered her a great deal.

For many years, she had considered herself to be an admirer of his from afar, and their brief but near-daily interactions had been the substance of her existence. Consequently, it thrilled her to be thusly confided in, at a time when she could clearly see he was of great need. She let him talk as much as he liked, which was not much, for he tended towards self-degrading comments about his unfortunate incivility and barbaric antisocial tendencies (neither of which she saw as major flaws). He followed such musings by turning the conversation on her. What did she do, what did she like? He wanted to know.

It took some courage on her part to take down the barriers she had put up against him over the years—her own ultra-formality, her own puritan prudishness, her (she hated to say it) outright and curt rudeness—but as she struggled to loosen her tongue to him, it became easier. The nice wine served at the event did not discourage her much, either. She had been so indifferent towards him for so long, however, that it was very difficult to rescind her aforementioned attitudes in favor of more human interaction.

It made her happy that when she began to talk about her family, he began to smile—not the lackadaisical sarcastic twitch that usually graced his lips, but instead a firm tug at either cheek that made him look very pleasant. Family was a large part of her existence; she had done her family tree a long way back, back to her old French great ma, who was a concubine to Louis the Sun King. Severus liked the fact that this grand dame was swept off her feet by a failed Dutch banker, who was racing his creditors, and this banker (by the name of Haie) had to smuggle her out of the country. They married in Jolly Old London where they had numerous daughters and set up a tavern and brothel, though these two activities had no connection. This led Severus to ask, was this how come Irma—could he call her Irma?—now led an exciting and promiscuous life as a school librarian?

Replying, with a small frown, that she was not nearly so dull as she might seem, Irma said that no, he could absolutely _not_call her Irma, and that Madame Pince was quite satisfactory, thanks very much. This she regretted in the same instant, because she was dying for him to call her Irma; his dulcet tones were unchanged from yesteryear, and were so agreeable to her palate. She kept mum on these private thoughts, however, and Snape was a gentleman enough to respect what she said aloud.

Though, after that he _did_ exaggerate his _Madame Pince_, to the point that she wondered if he suspected that she preferred him to use her Christian name.

The wine, as mentioned before, was quite good, and both partook in uncharacteristically liberal amounts. Both of them liked red far more than white, which Snape took to mean that _Madame Pince_ was headstrong and not at all fruity. She replied to the effect of 'what do you mean by that, and could the same be applied to you?', wherein Snape laughed and said he was not a sexist, but that he was also not a feminist, thank **you**_ Madame Pince _very much. At which point, she frowned, because she wished he were stronger for the rights of women, but Snape pointed out that if he were pro-feminism, then he would be anti-hommism, if such a term existed, and since he was a_ homme_, where did he think that would get him? Therefore, he suggested, equality of the sexes was appropriate in terms of power, but, it seemed to him, men and women are fundamentally different, and therefore should not be subjected to the same treatment across the board.

This of course completely disregarded the fact that humans, as individuals, are diverse and often different, he added to make his argument more well-rounded. It seemed that he was getting garrulous with the alcohol, while Pince felt herself becoming quieter. To hide this, she suggested that they take a final glass each out into the garden; the roses, she had heard, were gorgeous this summer.

He agreed, saying that the crowd certainly did not thrill him, and soon they were outside, in the heavy, damp perfumed air of the Hogwarts gardens.

"You're quite interesting," he said, once they were alone.

"I think you are far from interesting; I think you are impertinent," she replied, though only half conscious about what she was saying.

"Really." He did not seem amused, but then, nor did he seem angry.

"But that's not all," Irma said, taking a final sip of wine and placing the glass on the paved path under the bench. As she bent over, she looked down at her high-collared button-down dress shirt and wished she had the foresight to wear something more salacious, though she never could have pulled it off, she knew. This lack did not seem to deter Severus' attention, it seemed, for his eyes focused on the back of her neck. When she sat up again, she continued.

"You are the most insufferably arrogant man I have ever met. Do call me Irma," she whispered, and then, without realizing what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around his neck, brought him close, and kissed him fervently.

Total surprise was in his eyes when he looked at her, directly.

"You're intoxicated."

"So are you," she hissed, realizing that while he had not accepted her, he had not either completely rejected her.

"Are you toying with me, Irma?"

She gingerly placed her hands in her lap and made her best appearance of being dignified.

"No. I am in love with you, Severus."

"Then you are more inebriated than I thought. Come," he suggested, standing, "You ought to go to bed. You'll regret this when you remember it tomorrow morning."

His hand was shaking perceptibly, however, as he thrust it in her direction with the purpose of helping her rise.

"Why do you think I sent you those books?" she asked, unmoving.

He was silent for a moment. "Why, indeed?" he reiterated. "Pity, I suppose."

"Some. But more than that."

Severus shook his head. "Come, it's getting late."

"Take me to my room?"

He shook his head again. "You're old enough to get there by yourself."

This stung her. The roughly-ten-year age gap was something she had forgotten to take into consideration throughout the entire evening. A seed of hope had planted itself in her psyche, and it was dashed away with this reminder.

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" he asked politely, when she had been silent for some moments.

The mixture of emotional crushing—more that her usual dose for an evening—along with the overindulgence in wine made Irma particularly susceptible. At that moment, with her distinct lack of control, she bent her head and began to quietly weep. Snape, at a loss, began to search for a handkerchief on his person, but ended up retrieving one from her purse.

"I'm making such a fool of myself," Irma said, between silent gasps. "I'm sorry. Forget all this. Forget my words. Forget me."

"Why forget?" Severus asked, sitting down next to her again.

Irma tried to blame her words on something, and she floundered. Finally, taking a deep breath, she said, "It's the heat", and gently bent her head into her handkerchief to sob silently.

Trying to understand, Severus edged close to her—cautiously, as though not sure whether to take the chance—and put his arm over her shoulders. Relaxing instantly, Irma leaned into his shoulder, and pressed her handkerchief firmly against her face to hide the tears that still frolicked down her face.

Deliberately, he breathed, as though trying to make up his mind to say something. Then she felt words rising from the deepest corners of his internal cavities, the vibrations ebbing and flowing as he mustered the courage to say:

"But perhaps one does not _want _to forget?"

Of course, Irma's impulse was the cry harder, but she retained it enough to ask, "Really? Truly?"

Inhaling the warm summer evening air through his gorgeous but enormous nose, Snape closed his eyes and laid his lax hand at the nape of her neck.

"You are a lovely woman, Irma."

More beautiful words in more beautiful voice she had never heard.

"Thank…thank you," she stuttered, wondering whether he meant it or not. She felt his heartbeat, now, through the minute pulsing of neck, and it drove her absolutely wild.

"Would you like me to walk you to your room, now?"

"Yes," she said, in what felt like the smallest of voices, "Please."

* * *

He probably did not love her, and she knew that, she reflected as she sat in front of the open window breathing in the cooler pre-morning air, which was dewy and fresh and invigorating. She bleated her feelings to him, he took advantage of the opportunity, possibly pitied her, and would be gone when morning broke. They probably never would speak again, even when he checked out books. Still, she thought, one night where she could do something like this—why, this night was worth ten years of her life, she felt.

Then, she realized just how pathetic a thought _that_ was, and suddenly she began to cry again, ever so silently.. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her palm, and sniffed daintily. It was of the utmost necessity not to wake him up. He was just out of the hospital; he needed his rest. Ultimately, she was willing to sacrifice her happiness for his well-being.

She was looking at the horizon, waiting for the sun, and suddenly a warm presence was at her collarbone. It was so startling that she nearly cried out, and did indeed gasp, but her lips were met by a single, gently chiding finger.

"Are you all right?" he whispered to her.

She nodded slowly, not certain of the answer herself but rather inclined to believe the best, for his sake.

"May I join you?"

Again, she signaled the affirmative, and he sat down next to her, to look out at the dismal sky.

"About tonight," he said in gruff tones, after a long silence. Irma stared, melancholy, into space. Seeing that she was not going to volunteer any answers, he asked gently, "Do you regret what we did?"

She shook her head, and whispered, "No."

It took great pains on her part to not look at him; he was wearing nothing but trousers. In bed, he had been wearing nothing, so somehow he had put on at least one layer of clothing without her noticing. Well, she was not the ex-spy in the room, so she thought it of little concern.

She did look at him, though only a little, to catch his reaction to her answer. It seemed that he appeared calm, complacent, and even content.

"I'm glad," he said wistfully, and then Irma, realizing the magnitude of what he just said, turned to him and embraced him fully.

"No, _I'm_ glad," she said with a finalistic tone.

They remained there a good many minutes, until she realized that he was rather warmer than the room, which still was unbearable.

"Come back to bed, then," Severus suggested with a yawn, "Morning's very close."

"I will, Severus. Just go back to sleep."

A smile played across her lips as he muttered in the affirmative, crawled under the covers, and began to breathe deeply.

Irma, though, waited to watch the sun begin to rise on another hot August day before she retired again for a few scant hours. New hope, it seemed, came when the temperature rose in Scotland.


	10. Neville Longbottom

**A Field of Buttercups  
**

_Neville Longbottom  
_

**by TheWordFountain**

Neville loved Herbology – still did, of course. It had been one of his best subjects when he was in school, and now, it was his job at Hogwarts.

It was summer now, though. He was at home – a small cottage surrounded by woods, lake, and field. This blue-paneled house used to be his Gran's, but she had died only two years ago, so it fell into his possession. He wasn't alone, though. Both of his parents were with him for the summer, as was his wife, Hannah.

The moment Neville had gotten out of school, it had been his dream for him to be able to afford home care for his parents. He hated seeing them stuck in St. Mungo's and knew that they would love coming to the cottage.

Neville walked toward the window and stared out into the moonlit night. It really wasn't dark at all, as the full moon was out and shone on the flowers, almost making the cottage glow with a violent yellow hue.

Neville stretched and, feeling a bit of nostalgia, went to the small bookshelf and picked up the leather photo album that was surrounded by dust instead of other books. Gran's excuse for never using the bookshelf was: "I'd rather tell stories than waste my time reading them, thanks!"

Neville began to flip through the photo album, unsurprised that each page was filled with pictures of his parents. Gran had never loved anyone as much as those two, and so, she never bothered to pretend that she did. Neville had liked it though. He knew he could always ask questions about his parents and get an answer from her.

The last photo was his favorite. It was on a night similar to the one blinking outside, and Neville himself was actually in it with his parents. He was only a baby, wrapped in a blanket and in his father's arms. His mom was leaning down in the grass, but took a moment to look up and laugh at something Neville's dad had said. Once she was standing upright again, she leaned into Neville's father Frank's arms, and gently slipped a buttercup into Neville's pudgy fingers.

Of course, being a baby he only waved it around and ripped it apart, but it was still his favorite picture. He just liked watching his parents care for him, showing that they loved him. Now, with their lack of conscious mind, they barely even knew he was their son. He just wished they could think of him as a child… or at least remember that he was important.

Neville sighed and plopped himself down onto the couch behind him. He then slapped the photo album shut and put it on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes wandering back to the window and outside.

A shuffling soon echoed throughout the house and Neville reluctantly rose to his feet, knowing that it was probably his mum wanting a glass of water.

"Mum?" Neville called as he walked towards the open kitchen. He flicked on the lights and jumped as a crash echoed throughout the room, followed by a scream.

Neville let his shoulders fall, seeing that it was his dad. The cupboard that was filled with plates was opened, one of the plates being in small pieces on the floor. "Don't worry, Dad. I'll pick it up." Neville walked towards the plate, ignoring his still slightly-terrified father, and began slowly picking up the pieces to make sure he didn't cut himself.

Neville watched out of his peripheral vision as his father walked away - in the direction of the living room - and placed all the pieces in a brown paper bag from under the sink. He would repair it later. Magic had a tendency to freak out his parents, and he didn't want to bother with having to calm them down in the middle of the night.

After placing the bag under the sink, Neville turned to the living room and watched both his parents stare out the window in complete awe. They were almost like kids, their eyes gleaming with happiness as they looked at the bright world illuminating their faces.

Neville walked behind them, making as much noise as he could to let them know he was there – they only turned around for a half second – and then picked up the photo album, holding it for only a moment before placing it back on the bookshelf.

"Mom, Dad, time to go to bed," Neville said softly as he touched both his parents on the shoulders. His mom was first to turn around, her eyes pleading for something.

"What?" Neville asked.

For a few moments, Alice just stared at him with the same expression, but then she turned back to the window, putting her hand softly against the glass panes.

Neville stopped all movement for just one moment, wondering if he should let them both go outside. Chances were that if he did, his parents would not only not want to leave when it was time for bed, but that they would also be very cranky and unmanageable the next day.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by something grabbing his hand. His mother held his hand softly and opened her mouth as if she was trying to speak, and Neville easily understood. He had grown quite used to talking to his parents without words.

Neville turned to his father, hoping that he would show unwillingness to go outside. His father didn't notice Neville staring though, and gazed around as if looking for something amusing. Frank often looked around like this, but it was rare that something would actually grab his attention. It was almost as if he wasn't really looking, but always thinking; his parents had retreated into their own minds for safety. But, to Neville, it seemed as if they had gotten lost as well.

Neville nodded, still watching his dad as he reached out and grabbed the photo album that Neville had just put away. "All right, for five minutes."

His mom nodded excitedly in response to Neville's nod and turned to Frank, tugging on his sleeve.

Neville's dad turned around, his eyes vacant, and looked back down at the photo album, caressing the faces of him, Alice, and Neville. It was Neville's favorite photo of him and his parents out in the field.

Neville quickly grabbed it from his dad's hands, just as his dad tried to pull it out of the sleeve. Neville swallowed a rising lump in his throat, now wishing that he had said no to his mom and just decided to put her to bed.

"All right, come on," Neville said as he slammed the photo album down on the table behind him. He quickly unlocked the back door and led his parents out to the surrounding yard.

Neville took only a few steps, watching as his father walked slowly out to the center of the field, following the running Alice.

Alice began to spin herself in circles, eventually falling down. Neville jumped, moving to quickly run over to help her up, but stopped as he watched Frank slowly lean down and try to pull her up. Instead, Alice just leaned over the flowers surrounding her, inspecting each petal and letting her hands run smoothly over all the buttercups.

Frank soon joined her on the ground, and after a few seconds, he pulled something out of his pocket and unraveled it. He shoved it quickly under Alice's nose and she reached out tentatively, grabbing it in her small fingers and staring inquisitively.

Now, Neville was curious. He quickly walked over to his parents and knelt in front of them. He stayed silent, though. He was unsure of what to say or what to ask because he already knew what it was. Slowly, he reached out and slipped the thing out of his mom's hands and saw the familiar picture of him and his parents outside surrounded by a yellow night.

Alice reached out to a small buttercup between them and reached as far down the stem as she could, and then pulled. Neville held his breath as his whole body tensed in anticipation. His brain was on pause, almost as if he had no idea how to move forward and was just waiting for something to change.

Then, Alice reached out with the buttercup in her hand. A smile was growing on her face, and she looked eagerly to Frank, who also grinned happily.

Neville just stared at the buttercup, and only after Alice forced it in his hand and pushed her palm against his comfortingly, could Neville smile and let himself believe that he was important to his parents – even if they didn't realize that he was their child.


	11. Lord Voldemort

**Summer in St. James  
**

_Lord Voldemort  
_

**by starcrossedvoyager**

Bellatrix Lestrange looked at the plans on her desk, a feeling of accomplishment warming her body like a nice cup of cocoa. She was sure he'd like it - I mean, who wouldn't, after all she'd gone through to secure everything as he enjoyed it? She felt quite pleased with herself as she reached for another cookie. To hell with carbs today - after all, she was going on holiday with the man she loved.

* * *

"Bellatrix? Where in the name of Satan's left buttock have you brought me?" enquired an extremely disgruntled Voldemort, who was seated in a chair in an undisclosed location, a rather embarrassing straw hat hiding his lack of hair and his nose made even whiter than usual due to the presence of a generous lathering of sun lotion.

"Why, Barbados, my lord," replied a cheerful Bellatrix, who was sporting a matching straw hat, with a maniacal grin on her face.

Voldemort considered his next move carefully. He could torture her briefly for bringing him here, but it was a rather thoughtful gesture on her part. Plus, it hurt his seventh of a heart to see her hurt - she was so deliciously insane and evil.

Sighing, he stood up and brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his robes. "So, where is this... _spa resort_ you're taking me to?"

* * *

Hmm. This isn't so bad, he thought as he stretched. He was sitting on the terrace, drinking one of those delicious - what were they called again? _Daiquiris_? - and the ridiculous straw hat was beginning to grow on him. Yes, perhaps this mad scheme of Bellatrix had some merit after all he mused, taking another sip of his sugary drink. It was times like these when you could forget that you had an army of useless Death Eaters and a teenage pain in his backside. Oh well. It was July, and everyone thought he was still in dreary old England. Well let them panic, thinking he was out there somewhere, ready to strike at any moment, the imbeciles. He laughed at his brilliance, reclining--

"Sir?" a young terrified voice pierced his thoughts and in his annoyance he picked up his wand and yelled out "Avada Kedavra!"

"My Lord?" Bellatrix stepped out onto the terrace and carefully side-stepped the still body of the 20 something waiter. "Oh my Lord, that's the 5th employee today. They're going to start complaining." She scolded him mildly, gazing at him with starry eyes as unrequited love emanated from her very being. Voldemort ignored her - such inconsequential things should not bother him on holiday. Instead he reclined in his seat and called out "Make dinner reservations, will you."

* * *

"Bellatrix, when I said 'make dinner reservations', I didn't mean _this_," Voldemort's voice dripped with revulsion as he stared at the romantic table for two in front of him. He felt his temper rising, and looked around for someone to blame for this.

Bella snapped out of undressing him with her eyes, and replied hastily "But I thought this would create some _ambience_, for discussing Death Eater plans, my Lord." Voldemort harrumphed in a startling imitation of Vernon Dursley and sat down, eyeing the menu with distaste.

"Some wine, my Lord? To unwind of course," Bella offered as the waiter came over with a bottle of what he supposed to be some old vintage type that was to his liking. Definitely not spiked with love potion. Of course not.

"Never mind that. You said you wanted to discuss Death Eater business?"

"Oh, there's always time for that later, my Lord," Bellatrix replied smoothly, looking at him with what she imagined to be a sexy, smouldering look. "Would you like me to order some oysters?"

Voldemort stared at her. "Why the hell would I want oysters?"

"Oh no reason, my Lord. I just thought you might like to be a little adventurous, seeing as how it's summer, and we're on holiday and all."

"You mean _I'm_ on holiday." He narrowed his eyes. What the hell had gotten into her lately?

"Of course, my Lord." _Oh he looks so sexy_, she thought, mentally drooling at the piece of uncovered arm muscle that was on display as he rolled up his sleeves in the evening heat.

_I should probably get my followers checked up on_, he thought as he looked at Bella with a look akin to alarm; _they're all mental_.

* * *

"My Lord, back so soon?" enquired a surprised Lucius Malfoy, hastily Vanishing the fluffy pink slippers with the bunny ears and his hair rollers as his extremely pasty master suddenly Apparated into the Death Eaters' headquarters, followed by Bellatrix tripping over their luggage, for she hadn't taken her eyes off of Voldemort the entire time.

"Meh. I didn't like the people there – too cheery," replied Voldemort as he sank into his favourite armchair and picked up Nagini, who had taken up residence there. "Who's a good snakey? Who's the most pwecious snakey in the whole wide world?"

"So you didn't like the trip, then?" Lucius sipped some hot cocoa, looking appropriately sympathetic.

"On the contrary," came the reply from He-Who-Loves-His-Snake-A-Little-Too-Much. "Bellatrix?"

"Body count; 25, 109," beamed the long-haired nutter, in a fashion akin to a mother whose child had eaten all his greens.

"Seems a little sub-par for you, my Lord," Lucius said with a wry smile.

"Well, there are only so many people in… St. James, was it? And once you kill one dread-locked git, you've killed them all, it seems," said Voldemort in between blowing raspberries on Nagini's scales.

"Ah," said Lucius knowingly. "So I take it you will be taking more holidays, my Lord?"

"My, what a splendid idea! Bellatrix, book another holiday immediately!"

The Dark Lord reclined in his char, snuggling with Nagini. Life was sweet.


	12. Hermione Granger

**Summer Evening on the Seine**

_Hermione Granger_

**by Anachronistic Anglophile**

_Sunsets are glorious all over the world, _Hermione contemplated appreciatively,_ but sunsets in Paris are superior to all the rest. _

It was a quiet weekday evening in the middle of a heat wave during the July of 1998. Wendell and Monica Wilkins were restored to Oliver and Augustina Granger, and despite the fact that there was a war just recently concluded, they still wanted to go on their usual summer holiday to France.

That was just fine by Hermione, who was rather eager to distract herself from mourning for all the dead.

Callous she was not, but she was rather sick of everyone's sentimentalities. Being a pragmatic person, she did not see the use in looking around her and being reminded of Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Dumbledore, Dobby, Snape, and the numerous others who died. They were dead, and she had cried for them, but what else could she do? She was not about to stop her life just because they no longer were in it.

So, she did not resist when her parents dragged her off to France, and she actually found the trip very enjoyable, not least of all because she brought a friend.

Neville, she knew, needed a change of scene as well. He had gained a lot of confidence over the past year, which Hermione painfully attributed to the lack of Harry's overshadowing presence, but he, like Hermione, was sick and tired of crying.

'The most important people in my life have been dead to me since I was a tot,' he told her on the Eurostar ride to Paris, following her confided relief to be out of the Weasleys' tear-ridden hair, 'I can't grieve for anyone else as much as I have grieved for them. I don't have…what would you call it?'

'The emotional energy.'

He sank deeper into his seat. 'There you go. I'm very sorry for Professor Lupin, and all them, but I just can't feel as upset as everyone else does.'

Hermione could empathize in that respect, though she could not imagine what it must have been like to grow up an orphan. She told him so, as they sat together on the banks of the Seine.

Neville rummaged through the picnic basket they had brought for another bottle of butterbeer, not meeting her eye.

"Oh, it's not all bad," he said in an absent manner. "Harry's had a much worse time of it, I expect. My grandmother loves me. As I understand, his Muggle guardians were not very kind."

"They were abominable," agreed Hermione, "But he overcame adversity. That's what counts, isn't it?"

Opening the butterbeer, Neville nodded. "That's what people say. Though, I don't know, I've never heard of a person without adversity in their life.. Even Malfoy—he had his dad, you know? I think I prefer my dad to be brain dead than…forcing me to do things I know aren't right."

Hermione considered this, sipping from her glass of merlot, and smiled. "You're a philosopher, Neville."

"Oh, no I'm not. But thanks."

Even in the growing twilight, Hermione could tell that his cheeks flushed, just a tad.

Tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, Hermione glanced around them. The towers and spire of Notre Dame loomed, dark and ominous in the distance, while the orange-pink and purple sky served as a pleasant backdrop for the regal profile of _Le Tour Eiffel_.

Hermione and Neville were a couple among many, for the local Parisians liked to do just as they did of a hot summer's evening—take a picnic down to the paved banks of the Seine and enjoy the cool breeze that tickled the under-arms of the birch and willow trees.

"I'm going to get us some crepes," Neville suggested, standing up and stretching. "What kind do you want?"

"_Grand_ _Marnier_, please."

"Okay. I think I'll get that, too. I don't know, I guess if they have strawberry I'll get that. What's _Grand_ _Marnier_ anyway?"

"A liqueur. It tastes like oranges."

"Oh, I see. That sounds nice. Be right back."

Hermione shook her head, smiling as she watched Neville's somewhat stocky figure waltz awkwardly up the cement stairs and walk along the cobblestone street above to a street vendor, whose umbrella was just barely viewable from her position. She picked up her wine glass, drained the last few drops, and carefully wrapped it up in the picnic basket. It occurred to her that she really did not feel like she wanted a crepe; instead she craved _une glace_, an ice cream.

Thinking about sweets brought her to compare the throngs of people along every side of the Seine to ants along a trail of sticky jam; there was no place along the river that was barren of smiles and laughter. Some people came in pairs to have a bit of quality time, others in large parties, some just sat and ate a pleasant dinner while admiring the sunset, and some waved to the tourist boats passing before them on the river. It was all very lovely, and very romantic, and there were lots of young couples taking advantage of the ambiance.

Neville returned with two crepes, one strawberry for himself and one _Grand Marnier_ for Hermione. She appreciated the piping-hot pastry and ate it slowly, relishing the flavor and deciding that there was nothing better on such an evening.

Her companion ate his quickly, but neatly.

"Do you want the rest of mine?" Hermione asked, laying half of her crepe down on the paper. "I can't finish it."

"Only if you really don't want it," Neville replied tactfully. "I'm not really hungry."

In reply, she tossed it into his lap, and soon it too had disappeared.

"That was better than I thought; it wasn't so much orange as I expected," Neville said with a satisfied sigh.

"Yes, I like it a lot. I'm just very full."

Neville seemed to commiserate; he inhaled and exhaled deeply, as though he were going to be sick. Then, however, he turned to her abruptly.

"So, how's things with you and Ron?" Neville asked as he twisted the paper wrapper, his style of speech so uncharacteristically cavalier that Hermione could tell that the question was painful.

"Oh, well enough," she replied cautiously, wondering if Neville's plain-as-day crush on her had not dissipated during the Golden Trio's absence from Hogwarts. "Of course, like everyone else, he's so desperately unhappy about Fred."

"Of course." Neville seemed at a loss.

"I'm in love with him, you know," Hermione blurt, and then was ashamed. Neville seemed to take this declaration in stride, or at least pretended to do so; he did not make any sudden moves to indicate severe embarrassment or hurt. However, his voice seemed a little more strained.

"That's obvious to anyone, I guess," he replied complacently, though he did not meet her eyes, "I'm actually in love with someone, too."

This last comment sounded a bit defensive. Hermione, believing he sacrificed his integrity for pride, did not press him.

"I suppose that's what happens in war-times," she mused, "People fall in love."

"You don't believe me," Neville said, sounding nervous, and Hermione got a glimpse of the Neville of yesteryear, the Neville she knew better.

"No, I do, of course, I do," she replied with the most insistent voice she could muster, but her tone sounded almost singsong. She hated that.

"Hannah Abbott," Neville said abruptly, and looked down at his feet..

Hermione thought about this. "Hm."

"We've always been rather close," Neville added, somewhat lamely. "This year, we…well…we've always worked together a lot in Herbology, and I guess this year we got closer than we ever had been. See," he said, now trying to convince Hermione, "She gave me this when we left school."

He brought out a gold pocket-watch with the Gryffindor crest upon it, opening it to the inscription on the inside:

_To the bravest Gryffindor of all_

_Love, H.A._

"That's a lovely watch," Hermione said, trying to show deep admiration. "She has excellent taste."

Neville cleared his throat, which Hermione took to be another indication of embarrassment.

"Yes, she's pretty, too."

Sullen, Hermione nodded. "Very much so."

"That's not to say that you aren't, of course," Neville added, sounding a mite unhappy.

"Oh, it's all right, I don't try to look pretty too often," Hermione said with a half-smile, "There have been some exceptions in the past, but generally, I don't mind looking dull and nerdy."

"There _is _something to be said for…'dull and nerdy', I think," Neville insisted, still trying to cover his past faux pas. "But that's not how I would describe you, even when you're not trying."

Cocking an eyebrow, and looking directly at him, Hermione felt a surge of feminine vanity rise within her, spurring her to ask: "Oh? And how would you describe me?"

"May I be completely honest?" Neville asked, his tone rising in a hopeful crescendo.

"No holds barred." She did not know why she said that; the phrase just popped right out of the increasingly-violet summer sky.

Neville took her at face value, however, and leaned closer to look directly in her eyes. "Windswept," he began.

"Right now, or all the time?"

He frowned. "Right now…no, I mean…well, all the time. It's your frizzy hair."

Hermione just smiled.

Returning to his serious pose, Neville sought for another word. "Intense."

"Valid; I won't bother further qualifying that."

"Pensive."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't."

"Down-to-earth."

"Which makes sense."

"Beautiful."

And before she could protest, his eyes were closed and his lips were on hers.

It was only the briefest of kisses—Hermione did not even have time to decide if she was enjoying it—for suddenly Neville pulled away in shock.

"I…I'm sorry," he stuttered, leaning away from her with bewilderment. "I don't know what got into me."

Hermione had no idea what got into him either, but she was not going to be hard on him. "It's all right," she said quickly, "I understand. These things just happen, sometimes."

"I don't feel for you that way," Neville said altogether too fast for her to entirely believe him.

"Well, it's probably just the _Grand Marnier_. Don't worry about it."

"I love Hannah."

"And I love Ron." Though, at this moment, Hermione could not remember why.

_Think only of Ron_, she thought sourly, trying to reign in her hormones. _Think of his lovely orange hair, the kissable little freckles around his nose, think of watching him flex his muscles and watching him flying around playing Quidditch…_

Of course, the more she tried to focus on Ron, the more her eyes were trained on Neville.

The young man in front of her looked so upset that she would not have put it past him to come to tears.

"That was unforgivable," Neville said sadly, "I betrayed your trust."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Hermione exploded, garnering a few supercilious looks from the Parisians around them. Quieter, she added, "It wasn't that horrible."

"Oh no, oh no, it was."

Though he turned his head away from her, she caught a glimpse of a tear hurrying down his cheek.

"Oh, Neville."

She put a hand on his shoulder, trying to think of something to say. The only thing that struck her at the moment was the opening of the sewer in the wall across the Seine, barely visible in the settling dusk.

"Do you see that, over there?"

She was pointing, but Neville did not look.

"What?" he asked sulkily.

"The grate over there. That's what used to be an opening to the famous underground sewers."

"What about them?"

He cast a quick look at where she indicated, but would not meet her eye.

"Victor Hugo wrote a long treatise on those sewers," Hermione said wistfully. "Did you ever go see _Les Miserables _in London? I know you told me once that you went and saw a lot of shows with your grandmum."

"Oh, yes, we saw it. Beautiful story." He was still recalcitrant to speak.

"Well, you know about Victor Hugo, then," Hermione went on, connecting two pieces of excellent French literature together, "And you know about the Phantom of the Opera, of course." They had passed by the _Opera Garnier_ earlier that day, and talked about the story of Erik, the Phantom, at that time.

"What about it?"

Hermione smiled faintly.

"I think it would be beautiful if someone wrote a story about Victor Hugo meeting Erik in the sewers, Victor Hugo doing research and Erik hiding from the Daroga or something. They could have a nice long conversation about quicksand and corpses that float downriver."

"Hm," Neville said, not agreeing or disagreeing.

Hermione, not sure where else to take the conversation, looked up at the sky. The darkness was growing more imminent, and the street lights on the bridges and along the sides of the Seine were flickering into beacons of light that reflected upon the water like the candles in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The tiny wispy clouds were no longer definable, and the summer heat had subsided to a fairly brisk chill. The feeble glistening of a few stars—not nearly so many as could be seen up in rural Scotland, from the Astronomy tower—made Hermione shiver.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was singing, in the quietest little singing voice possible.

"Stars, in their multitudes, scarce to be counted, filling the darkness, with order and law, they give me guidance, silent and sure, keeping watch in the night, keeping watch in the night, for they know their place is the dark, but mine's the way of the Lord, and those who follow the path of the righteous, shall have their reward."

She looked covertly at Neville, who appeared lost in his own thoughts, letting a few tears slip down his ruddy cheeks, like highwayman battling at staid carriage-doors.

"And if they fall as Lucifer fell, they fall in flames."

At this point, she was not sure if she had mixed up some lines or not, and she half expected Neville to prompt her, but what were the odds that he had listened to the CD of _Les Miserables _more times than her?

"Go on," was all he could find to fill the silence between them.

"I don't know the rest," she admitted.

"Pity. Beautiful piece of work, that show."

He seemed to have calmed down after the rogue kiss, but he still seemed inconsolably sad.

Hermione did not know what to do to cheer him up; only one option came to mind—pursuit of truth.

"I suppose you've been carrying a torch for me," she said gently, "And I don't mind."

He shook his head. "But you don't return the feelings." His shoulders sagged as he slowly inhaled and exhaled. "I'm so pathetic."

"You're far from pathetic, Neville. Now, stop crying."

Perhaps it was not considerate, regarding the situation, to dab his eyes with the cuff of her sweater sleeve, but he made no motion to stop her. In any case, as soon as she did so, he swept her into a crushing hug.

"You're just…so _nice_, Hermione."

_I don't think I'm nearly as nice as Hannah, though _Hermione thought, feeling more and more like Lavender Brown _ought _to have felt in their 6th year.

Nonetheless, as her cheek met his, she got a whiff of his sweet cologne, and it was of a very solid, manly scent, and she smelt the hot cement beneath them and the cool breeze that fluttered around them. Then she got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower again, and the gibbous moon, and she realized anew how lonely she was without Ron.

"Kiss me again, Neville," she said slowly, "This is Paris, on a cloudless evening, in the summer. It would be a shame to waste this romantic ambience."

"Yes," he said solemnly, and obviously complied.


	13. Nymphadora Tonks

**Caution**

_Nymphadora Tonks  
_

**by Wotcher-Tonks**

_For aught that I could ever read,  
Could ever hear by tale or history,  
The course of true love never did run smooth._

_**William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)**__, "A Midsummer Night's Dream", Act 1 scene 1

* * *

_

_Jesus Christ. _She says and her eyes well up with tears that she brushes away angrily (she doesn't want him to see).

_I'm sorry. _He says and his eyes search for hers begging her to understand.

_Don't apologize! _She snaps and blood rushes to her face in anger.

_Dora, I l- _He stops himself and hits the brakes before he can tell her the truth (and drive over this cliff, because right now he's toeing the edge.)

She says nothing, just glares at him. They stare at each other for a long moment and Remus can hardly stand to look in her eyes because they are good and she is good and he is nothing but bad and he will do nothing but hurt her. )

And then, the masochistic part of Remus (more than a part these days), speaks, and the familiar, hated words are out and he can't take them back (he won't.)

_I'm too old for you. I'm too poor for you. I'm too dangerous for you. _

_Bloody hell. _She snorts and rolls her eyes. _Not that shit again. _

_Too old for me?_ She says after a minute.

_Old enough to be your father._

Tonks considers that for a second, then her eyes narrow. _You bloody well are not!_

She steps closer to him. _And..._

All of a sudden, she's kissing him, her mouth everywhere and Remus tries to keep his wits about him, has to resist but he can't. He fails- his arms go up and tangle in her hair (which is brown, not pink, and he hates to be the cause of that but he can't focus on any thought right now, its just pure instinct and they grip each other more tightly), and he feels alive and younger and richer and safe. Then she stops, pulls away, steps back. Remus stands there, breathing heavily, feeling her absence sting his skin.

_Would I do that with my father?_

He's at a loss for words. They've kissed, yes, but never like that, with so much desperation and passion and so many things that Remus thought were clichés only found in cheap paperbacks, not in real life, and especially not in his life. He struggles to speak and says in a hoarse (even more hoarse than his normal voice, with its damaged vocal cords from the screaming agony of transformation), and the realization jars him, reminds him that he's a monster and doesn't deserve her, isn't worthy of her tolerance, much less love, so he just raises an eyebrow and says, _I should hope not._

He regrets it once he says it because its not what she wanted to hear, hoped to hear, not in the slightest. She closes her eyes and mutters under her breath about _bloody thick man_ or something like that, Remus isn't sure. She takes a breath of resolve and Remus hopes (well, part of him does) that she's accepted it, that that was a goodbye kiss, that they'll just avoid each other for the rest of summer and will never mention this again. She opens her mouth and Remus is braced for her farewell but instead she says simply _You're not poor._

Remus just gapes at her and she says _How could someone be poor when they have a place to sleep and food to eat and friends and books and magic and people who love them? _Ticking each off on her fingers as she continues down the list, looking him dead in the eye at the last one. He has to admit she has a point (but only to himself, not to her or it'll all be ruined.)

_And as for dangerous_... She whips her wand out and casts a spell, and fire is soaring in streams around her, and she stands in the middle of it, unharmed and indifferent. She flicks her wand lazily and the fire becomes creeping wisps of black smoke that cloud her from his vision and Remus is transfixed. The wand flicks again, and strong winds blow around her and her hair is swept back and she looks so fierce and beautiful that Remus swallows hard and as if she senses it, she whispers _Finite_. And then she's on the ground again, staring him in the eye.

_Those were some of the spells I used in my last case. I headed a group of Aurors taking down a murderer who had already killed two of us before. I took him down. _

She steps up to him again. _I don't care how dangerous you think you are and how chivalrous you think you're being but when it comes down to it, I could kick your goddamn arse. So cut the crap. You're insulting me, thinking an Auror can't protect herself. _She laughs bitterly.

Remus is still struck dumb and Tonks' face softens. _I love you. _

He knows he can't let it happen but when he tries to sleep at night, those words always echo in his mind and remind him what he's got to live for, even if he can't let anything happen. This summer has been so fast and slow and wonderful and cruel but every time they argue just when he's about to give in he remembers his ace in the hole (he will only bring her down.)

He wants to say it back but he can't, can't let her know, and she kisses him softly and sweetly._ Do you really think your weak excuses would ever convince me to stop? As if I could be convinced, Remus! That isn't how it works. _

She looks him in the eye, their foreheads still pressed together and she says _I'm not afraid, Remus. So why the bloody hell are you?_

And without a glance backwards, she marches away. Remus leans his head against the wall and waits for the thud of her fall (she's bound to, she always does). But it doesn't come, because this time, she's being careful. And so is he.


	14. Gabrielle Delacour

**Unpredictable  
**

_Gabrielle Delacour  
_

**by Nanaho-Hime**

Gabrielle Delacour loved the summers she spent in Paris, with her good friend Beatrice in Monsieur Chevelier's studio. Summers in Paris were magical; there was lunch on the Seine, or by the Eiffel tower, making fun of tourists who didn't have a clue, sitting in the pews of Notre Dame and listening to the magnificent choir. The weather was predictable, the fun was predictable, the summer crushes were predictable.

And then one summer, the summer she turned fourteen, it wasn't.

She didn't think she'd fall in love so young or so hard. He wasn't even attractive, well he was cute, so very cute, but, he wasn't hot. He was taller than her, and so skinny he looked like he'd snap in half if it got too windy outside. He had permanent bags underneath his blue eyes, and a camera around his neck at all times of the day.

Dennis Creevy was working on an internship in Paris, in Beatrice's father's studio, and he was so hopelessly clueless that Gabrielle just had to help him. She'd feel immoral if she left the naïve tourist by himself. And she fell in love with him, but she was fourteen and he was eighteen and he had refused to get involved with her. He'd insisted that the age gap was too much, and that she was underage and that he just didn't feel for her that way, he barely knew her.

It had left her perturbed really, that he was not even remotely attracted to her. She'd remembered Fleur describing what it was like, to have a man who saw past Veela charm, but she's had her doubts. It had infuriated her, that he was too much of a prude. He was absolutely ridiculous about the age difference, when she'd try to argue using Fleur and Bill's case, he'd pointed out that Fleur had been eighteen when they had started dating. Any other man would have men overjoyed to have a beautiful young girl pursue him so ardently but Dennis wasn't.

_You're fourteen, enjoy being a teenager._

She'd been quite shameless in her advances. She'd moved into his apartment, refusing to be ousted, claiming that he needed a guide due to his poor French skills. Everything she did to tempt him didn't work. He was staunch in his resolve.

Despite everything, she accompanied him on his quest to create the perfect portfolio, and she realized that she really did love him; not just as someone who was unattainable, but as a human being who'd suffered the loss of someone very dear to him; and as a man who tried to capture every beautiful moment in his photography.

Because he knew, better than most, that they might not last very long.

_You know, he took pictures of everyone, everything, but he never took pictures of himself, so…I've got nothing._

In the beginning it had been infatuation. He was just another fish to catch, but the expression on his face when he spoke about his brother, or when he took a picture, or when they were just friends and he called her 'Gabby' she knew she was in love.

The day he had to go back to England, she thought her heart would break. It was like the day Fleur left, moved to England to be with Bill, and she was breaking.

_I'll write you Gabby, I promise I'll write you_

He did write to her, but he was always cautious, and always the first to remind her that she was too young and that she'd change her mind eventually and she'd fall in love with a handsome French boy and forget all about him.

She knew that she wouldn't, because she couldn't look at other boys anymore. Beatrice made fun of her, quoting Shakespeare, and offering to save her a spot at the nunnery. Gabrielle didn't care, she saved every one of his letters, read and reread them until they were torn at the edges and fading.

The summer she turned seventeen, she got fed up waiting for him to visit, so it was decided that she would spend the summer with Fleur and Bill and her new niece, Victoire, at Shell Cottage.

Summers in Britain were different than Paris, so very unpredictable. The rain, for one, was ridiculously sporadic. She'd be out, tanning on the beach, and a few minutes later she'd be soaked to the bone, and then the sun would come out again as though nothing had happened.

Dennis didn't call on her. It took a few days for Gabrielle to pluck up the courage to mention Dennis, and it took her big sister all of about two minutes to convince Bill to take Gabby down to the Creevy studio. Upon entering the studio, she was disappointed to find out that he was out.

The young woman, who had informed them of Dennis's absence, stared unabashedly at Gabby.

"Wait, did you say Gabrielle Delacour?"

Gabby nodded, crestfallen, and wanting nothing more than to crawl back into bed. She'd never see him again.

"OH MY MERLIN'S PANTIES!"

Gabrielle jumped back, and Bill snickered as the brunette jumped up to shake Gabby's hand vigorously.

"I'm sorry it's just so exciting, meeting you," the young witch babbled, "Dennis talks about you all the time, and, oh sorry I haven't introduced myself, Natalie Macdonald,"

Gabby had heard nothing past 'Dennis talks about you all the time'. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, and the warmth spread to her fingertips.

Natalie was chatting a mile a minute; she took a hold of Gabrielle's arm and led her to a messy room, hidden in the corner. On the disorganized desk, one picture stood out.

It was from the summer they met, and it was of her. She was standing on top of a stone wall, balancing as she stared up at Notre Dame on the other side of the river. Her silvery hair blew out around her, her half lidded eyes nostalgic and content.

He kept a picture of her on his desk.

Natalie seemed pleased by the expression on Gabrielle's face, "I know he goes on and on about how there's nothing going on between you two, but sometimes he slips up and when people ask who she is, he calls you his girlfriend."

Gabrielle went back to the cottage with Bill, nearly giddy with her newfound information.

Two days later, Dennis Creevy came up behind her on the beach, took a seat beside her.

She felt herself go still, her breath stopped. He didn't look at her. He stared out into the sea.

"Give it up, Miss Delacour."

It was as though he had slapped her.

"No."

She was obstinate and e was clearly frustrated with her.

"I'm not going to change my mind about you Gabby, we had one fun summer, you had a crush, it's ridiculous for you to come all the way here just to find me."

She didn't look at him, for fear that if she did, she'd cry. Gabrielle never cried in public. The very thought of tearing up in front of people made her stomach churn with humiliation.

"I'm of age now."

It was all she could think to say.

He groaned in his exasperation, and shifted away from her.

"I don't know what Natalie told you, but don't listen to her, she's a matchmaker."

Gabrielle blinked rapidly, felt her voice grow smaller and smaller.

"But I saw zee picture on your desk."

If she had taken the chance to glance at him she would have seen a flush on his cheeks.

"There are tons of pictures in my office, pictures of Colin and the DA and my family, and Natalie and Stew, and Orla, and my mates back home, and so of course there's something going on between me and all of them too."

There was a bitter sarcasm in his voice. She didn't believe him to be so cruel, but she snapped, jumping up abruptly, her eyes flashing.

"But I love you!"

Dennis had stood to confront her, an anger she'd never seen before in his mild blue eyes.

"You keep saying that Gabby, but do you know anything about love? You're just being stubborn."

Gabrielle was horrified to find herself struggling to fight back the tears. It made her angry; downright furious, his dismissive tone and his scornful gaze.

"Don't you look down on me Dennis Creevy," she shouted, her voice almost incoherent due to her heavy French accent "I know I love you, I haven't gone on a date in three years, I read your letters and I read them again, When you call me Gabby I feel I'll die of happiness, when you smile at me my heart wants to burst, and when we're apart I'm broken, and right now I'm making a fool out of myself, telling you all this."

Big fat, ugly tears made their way down her cheeks, smearing her makeup. Dennis looked as though she'd punched him. He lifted up a hand uncertainly, unsure whether or not to comfort her.

She wouldn't give him the chance, "My favorite memory is our summer, the summer I met you, I've made a complete idiot out of myself, but forgive me for bothering you Monsieur Creevy, I won't be forcing my affections onto you again!"

She ran into the house, leaving him standing in the sudden, unexpected downpour, looking helpless.

Fleur took one look at her stricken face when she entered the cottage, and had quickly ushered her up the stairs. Fleur was the only one Gabby felt comfortable crying with. Her older sister stroked her hair, comforting her.

"Darling, has it ever occurred to you that Dennis is insecure?"

Gabrielle sniffled and buried her head into the pillow.

"Maybe he's afraid you'll change your mind, maybe he's afraid that if he does let himself love you, you will find someone else, or you'll get bored of him."

Fleur held her sister close, "You know it's not easy for him either, you're young, you're beautiful, and you can do better."

"But I don't want to do better." Her words were muffled by the pillow.

Fleur smiled, "But he wants you to do better, what does that tell you?"

"That he's an idiot," Gabby's voice was muffled by the pillow.

Fleur ruffled her baby sister's hair, "It means he loves you Gabby, it means he's afraid that he's not good enough."

Gabby wasn't convinced. It had seemed clear to her that Dennis viewed her as nothing more than a silly little girl, a nuisance and someone to pity. She tried her best not to think of him as the summer dragged on. She tried to fill her days by playing with her beloved niece. Victoire was so very dear to her. She played peek-a-boo and read her fairy tales and dreamt of the day she'd have her own little girl. It was difficult not to think of Dennis when she thought of her own family.

She was going to leave Britain come summer's end.

It was a few days before she was scheduled to leave, and she was sitting in the living room. Victoire had fallen asleep in her arms, when the doorbell rang. She mentally cursed out whoever was at the door as Victoire awoke and began to howl.

"Hush little one," Gabby cooed as she opened the door, ready to scold the intruder.

She nearly dropped Victoire when she caught sight of Dennis Creevy, dressed in Muggle attire, looking sheepish and embarrassed.

"Sorry to interrupt, did I make her cry?"

Before she could react, he had swept the wailing baby into his arms.

"I'm sorry sweet-heart," he crooned softly; "I didn't mean to upset you."

If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was apologizing to her, in his own roundabout way.

He rocked her gently, until she dozed off again. Why had he come, seeing him, being so soft with Victoire, she could fall in love with him again.

"Is there a crib?"

Regaining control, Gabrielle pursed her lips and nodded curtly. Afraid that she'd wake Vicky, she waited until after he had placed her in the crib, and after they returned to the living room. Her gaze was much too frigid for the warm, humid summer day.

"Bill and Fleur are out"

He kept his expression demure, "I didn't come to see Bill or Fleur."

Gabby crossed her arms against her chest, "Well, what do you want?"

He didn't answer her right away. He fidgeted a bit, his eyes roving the room, coming to rest on family photographs.

"I guess I was right."

It wasn't the answer she was expecting.

"Bill came to talk to me, but see how easy you got over it?"

He was mostly speaking to himself now. His tone was light, but there was a subtle hint of disappointment and resignation.

"For what it's worth," his eyes finally rested on the window behind her, overlooking the ocean, "Our summer, was the summer I started to heal, it was the summer I knew I was going to be okay."

They stood in silence, and the emotion welled up inside her.

"That picture of you, on my desk, is my most popular photograph, everyone tries to buy it, but I won't sell it, I can't sell it."

Dennis was frightened. She could see it now.

"I love you."

She would put herself out there, one last time.

He finally tore his gaze away from the sea and stared at her.

"You're leaving in a few days right?"

She nodded mutely, her breath hitched.

"I won't stop writing letters, and I'll visit you next summer."

They stood in silence, and Gabby internally debated her next move. He closed the gap between them with tentative steps. They were a mere inch apart, and she had frozen, too frightened that she'd break his resolve. He took a hold of her hand.

"You're not underage anymore,"

"No."

Slowly, unsurely he bent over and softly pressed his lips to hers.

It was the first time he had kissed her. She'd caught him off guard on a few occasions and had forced him into a few kisses before he had pushed her away, but this time it was of his own volition.

Summers were theirs. It was when they fell in love with the world all over again, when everything was full and bright and alive. It would forever be their time.

He pulled away from her, but he didn't let go of her hand.


	15. Regulus Black

**It's Not Easy Being Black  
**

_Regulus Black  
_

**by tambrathegreat**

It was the Black brothers first night home from Hogwarts for summer holiday, and the dust-up that had begun between Sirius and Mother in the library had turned into an all out row involving Father too. Regulus had listened from the kitchen at first, but mother's house elf had chased him from the room, the rustling of her ancient, papery skin sending chills up his spine.

Reg retreated to his room, taking note that Kreacher, the elf that had raised him since he was in nappies, stood hunched pitifully outside his door and was nursing yet another scorched ear. No doubt the thing had enraged his already empurpled mother during the row with Sirius. Regulus pulled the Dock Potion, which Severus Snape had sold to him, from his trunk. The dark boy may be poor, from an undistinguished magical family, and a reputed half-blood, but he remembered Regulus' state after his last summer spent with brother dear, and had given him a special deal. Sirius had spent the entire holiday last year going through the library at Grimmauld Place searching for hexes to use on Snape. He had tested them on Regulus.

Regulus pulled the creature to him, settling the house elf between his knees after he sat on his bed, and began putting the ointment on the burn. Kreacher howled his unworthiness until Regulus' ears were ringing.

"Leave off already," he snapped. "Else I'll send you to fetch something from the library."

The elf swallowed his cries, although the occasional tear still marred his leathery features. Reg felt bad about the threat, but the headache that had begun on the train ride home was just beginning to abate.

A flurry of heavy footsteps pounded on the stairs, and Regulus heard Sirius shout as he slammed the door, "Fine. I'll just leave then, since you don't want me! See how you like that!"

It was going to be a wonderful summer.

* * *

It had been a fortnight since Reg and Sirius had returned home, and still the battle raged on. It was a take-no-prisoners kind of row in which both sides said unforgivable things. Reg sighed as yet another bout of screaming and cursing (the real kind, not imprecations) blew up belowstairs.

The youngest Black brother lay on his bed, attempting, amidst the noise, to do the homework that Sluggie had sent home. It was a fairly simple essay asking the student to explain the various ways a potion might react to different bases, but Reg hadn't been able to complete it. He needed the library. He thought momentarily about contacting Snape, who was a year ahead of him and absolutely brilliant at Potions, but then remembered that Snape's hovel had no Floo connection. He discarded the idea of going to Manchester to find him. The Mudblood lived thereabouts, but Reg knew the area was infested with Muggles. What proper wizarding family lived in Manchester anyway?

Another shouted accusation from his brother's mouth was followed by the shattering of crystal, muffled oaths, and sobbing. Reg couldn't be arsed to go see what was going on. Sirius was being unreasonable about everything this year. Reg's parents blamed his recalcitrance on his friendship with that blood traitor, Potter. If they only knew.

Reg returned his attention to the Potions problems, his eyes becoming heavy as he read on in the stifling heat of his upstairs room. He would have to tell Kreacher to either fix the atmospheric charms, or unstick the window.

He thought he might just rest his tired eyes for a moment.

He woke with a start, to a soft knock on his door. It was later, much later. He could tell by the soft, almost lavender colour of the sky outside his window. He stretched, taking his time to clear his head. The only person in the family that had to knock on his door to gain entry was Sirius, and Reg was certainly not going to rush about in hopes that brother dearest would be happy to see him. To be honest, the only time Sirius spoke to him these days was to borrow a bit of blunt, or to caution him to stay away from Snape. Too bad Regulus couldn't do the same for Sirius and his undignified friends.

The knock sounded again just as Reg finished running a cleansing charm over himself. "Just a moment," he called. He went to the door and opened it a crack. "I've spent my allowance, Sirius."

Only it wasn't his brother. Orion Black stood outside the door, looking tired and much older than his years. "Regulus," he said wearily, "your mother bade me to tell you to come down for dinner. We have some things to discuss with you."

Regulus noted with some misgiving that Orion's normally austere expression darkened as he spoke, and his hand trembled as he lifted it straighten his son's hair.

"Yes, Father," he answered.

Orion paused as Regulus began pulling out his better robes, not quite formal but still nice. The Blacks always dressed for dinner. His father's mouth worked without sound until he choked out, "Do not enquire of Sirius to your mother. He is dead to us."

Well, wasn't that just a kick in the teeth?

* * *

Summer dragged on, and Regulus became used to the silence of the house as his parents went on their required social calls, acting as if nothing had happened to rip the fabric of their family. At least they did so in public.

Privately, Walburga Black seared her son's visage from the family tapestry and spent the next few weeks sobbing inconsolably every time she passed the room. Sirius had always been her favourite, even though she showed her regard in a typical pureblood manner. Mother had always been cold and distant with the two of them, but for the eldest she had always reserved the best cut of meat, the finest robes, and what little affection she did allow to show. Regulus had been no one's favourite. He was the spare to the heir in his parent's eyes.

And now, with Sirius gone to blood traitors and Gryffindors...

Regulus heard the kitchen entry open belowstairs. Mother and Father weren't expected for hours. They had a dinner with the Malfoys and after, as father's way of easing his wife's pain, they were to depart for a fortnight in France. Regulus was supposed to be alone. He called, out loudly, not liking the note of panic that had crept into his voice, "Kreacher? Kreacher!"

He realised with a start that father had lent the house elves to the Malfoy's kitchen for the evening, in part to impress the newest luminary in their social circle, a man who called himself Lord Voldemort. He felt only a little panicky with the elf elsewhere on his duties, he told himself. Reg pulled his wand out of the wrist holster and crept belowstairs to where he could now hear rustling sounds.

He flipped open the door and shouted the first spell he could think of.

"_Stupefy_!"

The figure, dressed in Muggle clothes, mostly black denim with rips and rivets all over, fell to the floor. Regulus breathed through his nose to collect himself and then made his way to the body. He toed it over with his boot and said, "Shit."

After scooping up Sirius' wand and placing it in the back pocket of the Muggle jeans, Regulus levitated his brother's body to the shining kitchen table, dumping him ungraciously in a chair . Not a moment too soon, as Sirius began to stir. Reg hastily put a binding spell on him and retreated to the doorway leading to the family quarters, crossing his arms over his chest to disguise that he still held his wand.

He waited until Sirius' stormy grey eyes opened before he cast a wordless _Silencio,_ asking, "Did you come to steal the silver, brother dear?"

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, then glared haughtily at Regulus as he realised no sound escaped his moving mouth. Reg smirked before cancelling the spell. "You can speak now."

"Thanks," Sirius spat. "I'm surprised you stopped at such elementary spells. Surely a future Death Eater knows how to cast an Unforgivable."

Regulus tried not to flinch at the mention of the organisation to which his father was so devoted. He had not been tagged to become one, and was glad. He doubted that a person who bore the Dark Mark could get an apprenticeship at St. Mungo's. "I am not a future Death Eater... no matter what your Gryffindor crowd thinks of us Slytherins."

To that, Sirius actually barked out a laugh. "What did they tell you about the fights we were having?"

"Nothing... just that you were too involved with blood-traitors and Mudblood loving filth." Reg hated the defensive tone of his voice and the quivering of his raised chin. He just wanted his family back, dysfunctional as it was. "Why did you leave?"

A crack of Apparition sounded outside the front door, and Sirius began fighting against the bonds. "Reg, whatever you do, don't go with them tonight. If you want to remain my brother, just stay at home."

Regulus backed away from Sirius, telling him, "I'll say you're here to make up. Don't leave again, Sirius. I'm sure things can be worked out."

With a sad smile, Sirius drew a piece of a tin from his jeans pocket, saying, "I wanted to help you, Reg, but I've got to be concerned about myself right now. Don't go with them. _Portus!_"

Sirius disappeared in a swirl of colour just as the sound of Father's heavy footsteps rang down the stairs. Reg cleared his throat, wondering why his face felt wet when Father commanded, "Regulus, come with me. Our Lord wants to meet my _worthy_ progeny. Quickly boy!"

Regulus dried his cheeks, numbly obeying his father's command.

As of tonight, he had no brother.

* * *

September first came too quickly for Regulus. So much had happened since he had last been on the Hogwarts Express. He waited by his mother in the crush of the crowd, wondering if his changed status showed. Sometimes he felt the tingle of the Mark when he thought of it. Most times he ignored the import of what it meant. His dreams had been dashed, his hopes destroyed. Sirius had seen to that.

The devil appeared in the flesh, braying about something that fat Pettigrew had said. Regulus felt a wash of the blackest hatred engulf him. He could laugh, knowing what he had set in motion; it was always like Sirius to think of himself first. The bastard.

"Get on the train," Mother commanded, her hand digging into his Marked arm. "I certainly don't need to worry about the riff-raff hanging about. The standards of Hogwarts have gone down since my day."

Regulus gave a sharp nod, wincing as the Mark burned. He was not to be called during this term, but next, when he was seventeen and allowed more freedom.

As he had since _that_ night, Reg felt ill. He broke away from his mother's clawed hand, feeling once more the pull of the Darkness that had called to him since_ then_.

He knew, as sure as a seer did, he would not come out of this war alive.


	16. Fleur Delacour

**Two Worlds**

_Fleur Delacour_

**by Bad Mum**

Summer is the cool of the woods and the sun on your skin and the breeze in your hair as you dance. Summer is you and Maman; Papa is left behind in the big house in the real human world. You and Maman, the aunts, the girl cousins – and Grandmama. The Veela men are there, but they seem insignificant, hardly real. Here, it is the women who rule.

Grandmama is what makes summer special. She is tall and fair, and so beautiful that sometimes you have to look at her sideways, just as you do not look straight at the sun. Beside her, Maman's beauty is ordinary; even the beauty of the aunts and the cousins who are full Veela fades. Grandmama's beauty transcends them all.

She tells stories – in the evening when they sit around the fires – of her youth, the time when she was the fairest of the fair, like a princess in the Muggle fairytale book that you love so much. How all the Veela men aspired to take her for their mate, and how she forsook them all for Jean Fouret, who was tall and dark and wholly human, and who saw the young Veela girl as a real person, not as simply a beautiful face and body. Jean is long dead, killed in the plague that ravaged the village below the mountains when Maman was a tiny child, but Grandmama's eyes still cloud with tears and the guttural Bulgarian she is speaking still cracks when she remembers him.

"Ah, my child," she says, lifting your chin and looking deep into your eyes. "You must find a man who loves you, not your beauty."

And you nod and smile, because arguing with Grandmama is unthought of, but you are only six years old, and you do not really understand.

And at night, in the room you share with her, you hear Maman crying, and you do not know why and dare not ask.

Summer ends abruptly, as it always does, with thunderstorms and fierce wind in the trees, and you try to be helpful as Maman packs her things and yours for the return to the real world. That last night, you wake in the dark to hear her crying harder than ever, and you hear your name and listen unashamedly.

"Ah, my child, my little flower, my Fleur, I have done wrong in bringing you here. You will be torn as I am. I am sorry." She is speaking Bulgarian, as she never does at home, and you think maybe you have not understood, as you do not feel torn at all. You like being part of two different worlds. It makes you feel special. How can it be hard or wrong? You do not understand.

-

The summer after Gabrielle is born, Maman brings her to the Veela, and you are older, and you see – and almost understand – the guilt in her eyes as she places the baby in her mother's arms to be blessed. Gabrielle too will know the two worlds, and you, a year or two from the beginning of womanhood, are beginning to understand that that might be hard. Next year – at your human father's insistence - you will go away to school as Maman never did. Maman learnt the human part of her magic from Jean's sister, her Tante Marguerite, who still lives in the village, and who you feel searching your face for a trace of her long-dead brother when you visit. You will learn more human magic than Maman ever knew, but it will take you further from Grandmama's world.

You see your baby sister in your grandmother's arms, and you know with a sudden clarity that one day this will come to her too, and for the first time you feel some sympathy for the interloper who has – as you see it – taken your parents' love and time from you. And Grandmama looks up from the crying kicking baby and straight into your eyes, and you know that she sees what you are thinking. You lower your gaze and feel your cheeks redden, and you are ashamed, but Grandmama smiles and holds the baby out to you.

"Ta petite soeur," she says, and you have never heard her speak French before, and you know that this is special, more important than anything she has ever told you before. She puts the baby in your arms, and Gabrielle stops crying and looks up at you with eyes the colour of bluebells.

"Yours to love and look after," Grandmama says, still in French; but she did not need to say it. With that look, Gabrielle has sealed her place in your heart forever.

-

The next summer, you see the two worlds so clearly. Your cousins – Thekla, Marie, Veronique, Susanna – who have been your playmates every summer of your life, seem apart, different now. They do not exclude you exactly, but there are ideas that you do not understand; Veela magic that you know would not work for you should you try it; and you cannot keep up when they dance. And always there is an unspoken sense that this is your fault, your choice, that it is you who is leaving them, although it seems to you an inevitable thing that is happening, not a conscious choice that you have made.

For the first time, you are glad when the storms herald the end of the summer. You want to return to the real, the human world where you belong.

On the last night, Grandmama draws you aside from the throng around the fires and into the forest a little way. She pushes you to your knees before her, and places her hand on your head for the blessing. When she lets you stand, half-embarrassed, half-awed, she presses a tiny gauze bag into your hand.

"Do not open it now, child," she cautions. "The wand maker will know how to use it, how to make it the core of your wand, the place where your two worlds meet." And she smiles and kisses you. "Do not forget that you are Veela, Fleur."

-

You do not go back every summer after that. You visit friends or stay at home with Papa (although the big house feels very empty without Maman and Gabrielle). You go sometimes for a few days at the end of the summer, but you no longer feel a part of the Veela world. You are an outsider looking in, and you envy your little sister, who dances with the Veela girls, and does not yet know that she is different.

But Grandmama does not treat you as an outsider. She welcomes you as she always has, blesses you when you leave, and reminds you time and time again: "Find a man who will love who you are, who sees beyond your beauty." You hardly listen any more. Being beautiful is such a part of who you are, you barely understand that the real you is separate. You are still very young.

-

The last summer is your final one before leaving school. Your mind is full of two things – of Louis and of the Triwizard Tournament – and you resent the time and effort that visiting the Veela demands of you. But you are glad when you see Grandmama, and understand why Maman was so insistent that you come. Grandmama, who has seemed ageless and indestructible up to now, is shrunken, her beauty undimmed, but somehow brittle and fragile. You know without being told that this is her final summer.

Her eyes and her insight are as sharp as ever. On the first evening, she takes your hands and scans your face.

"Ah, child," she says softly. "It hurts now, but will not forever. There will be another who sees the real you, and who will love you for who you are."

You cannot believe it. Louis was the first – the only – boy who you let see your true self, and he found it wanting. It is safer, less painful, to let the men see only the outside, what they want to see. Then you are in control. You do not voice the thought aloud, but Grandmama hears it nevertheless.

"It is safer, my Fleur," she whispers. "But it is not best. I hope one day you will know what it is to risk your very self, and to entrust it to one whom you love, and who will love you in return."

You do not answer. Grandmama is very old. She has forgotten how it is to be young.

There is no mention of the Tournament between you until the very last night. You kneel for your grandmother's blessing, knowing it will be the last time, and as she raises you and kisses you, she murmurs: "Remember, my child, success is not all. It is more important that you find and know yourself."

It is nearly a year later, six months after Grandmama's death in the depths of winter, that you begin to understand. It is even later that you remember what else she said, and dare open yourself up to a man who will love you for who you are.

-

You do not visit the Veela again. It is no longer your world. You do not exactly forget that you are Veela, but the human world – which after all is more than half of your heritage – is too demanding, too noisy, too persistent, for you to give much thought to the other, which now seems shadowy and unreal, a part of childhood that you have set aside with your dolls and fairytales.

But one summer, when Victoire is a year old, Bill goes to Egypt for a week on Gringotts business, and you know that now is the time to show your daughter the other world. She is too young to understand of course, and the other world is even less hers than it is yours now, but you know that you should take her and take her now.

When you place your daughter in the arms of your great aunt, Grandmama's younger sister, you know that you have done the right thing. Victoire will never know the two worlds as you have done, but this world is still a part of who she is. You will not let her forget that she is Veela. It is her right and her heritage, as it is yours.

You sleep peacefully that night; and the storms heralding the end of summer do not disturb you at all.


	17. Draco Malfoy

**Love Doesn't Exist**

_Draco Malfoy_

**by thelightningstrike**

It is the heat that does it, he is sure; the heat that sends Draco Malfoy ever so slightly mad, making him lust after girls that are not in Slytherin. Well, one girl. One girl he is spending most days of his summer with this year, because of his mother's 'accidental' last-minute change of plans.

He was _supposed _to be going away to their summer house in France, like he usually did with his mother and father for the first four weeks of the holidays. But now his father is in prison, the Dark Lord is out in the open and suddenly his mother doesn't think a family holiday is the best idea. And it turns out her new best idea is sending him away, to live with another family, to 'lie low' for a while.

He has been staying with the Greengrasses for 32 days and 4 hours and will remain with them for another 3 days (it is the heat that makes him count- it has nothing to do with knowing how much time he has left in the company of the second Greengrass sister.)

It is early on the thirty-third morning and Draco is in the garden, sat beneath a tree in the shade because it is already _far_ too hot (it is making him light-headed again and he really dislikes these light-headed thoughts.) He is reading, strangely, a novel, but it is difficult to continue because the story revolves completely around love, which Draco doesn't like because he doesn't want to believe in love (another reason why Pansy is so perfect for him as she is real and also knows that love does not, _cannot_, exist.)

After he has been staring at the same page for Merlin knows how long, he gives up and leans against the bark of the tree, closing his eyes and resting the book in his lap. Maybe the heat will let off just a little to let him sleep, but he doubts it, so instead he concentrates on the sound of his own rhythmic, steady breathing. (In and out, in and out.)

"What are you doing?" He knows to whom the voice belongs and a shiver runs through him before he manages to collect himself and open his eyes.

"What does it look like?" he asks sardonically, gesturing to the book in his lap. "I'm reading."

Astoria frowns at him and he takes this lull in conversation as time to look at her. She has her dark brown hair tied up in a clumsy ponytail; several strands have fallen forward by her ears, a perfect juxtaposition against her ivory skin. She's wearing a red dress and sandals with little bells around the heels, reminding him of some sort of gypsy. He tears her eyes away from her feet and looks at her face again. She's still frowning.

"You're not doing a very good job of it," Astoria says and kneels down, taking the book from his lap and looking at the cover. "You know, the words are inside- it might help you read if you opened it." She glances up at him with a smirk and then back down at the book. "Oh! You like Henry Merryweather?"

Draco looks at the cover of the book as if noticing the author's name for the first time (he won't admit to anyone that Henry Merryweather is his favourite author). "No, I'm don't, actually. All this drivel about _love_- it does my head in." Draco would never admit that this is his third time reading the novel- although he insists he only has because the main character reminds him of himself.

Astoria glares at him and clutches the book to her chest protectively. "Why are you reading it then if you hate it so much?"

Draco shrugs, not knowing what to say and watches as she looks back down at the book's cover and opens it to the first page. "How far have you got?" she asks.

"About halfway maybe- Scorpius is struggling to admit his feelings about Hera." Draco leans forward to show her the page and then relaxes back against the tree, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt.

"Oh," Astoria says and turns a few pages. "You haven't got to the best part yet."

"There's a best part? I'd hate to see what the worst part is, then." Although, he does already have a best part, even if he'll only admit it to himself. It's when Scorpius first admits to himself that love must exist (even though Draco knows it doesn't, it's nice to read someone else's reasoning.)

"Shut up," she says and he smirks. They've both got used to the witty banter by now. "Of course there is, there is in everything."

"Like the best part of your summer is my outstanding company?" He flashes a cocky grin at her while tangling his fingers in the grass to keep him firmly in reality so he doesn't hope that she'll blush and admit that yes, it is.

Astoria deadpans. "Ha ha." She flips a few more pages to somewhere in the middle. "Shall I read you my favourite part?"

Draco plucks the grass that he was holding onto so tightly and gathers it in his palm. "If you must."

Astoria crosses her legs and sets the book in her lap, leaning forward to read. More hair escapes from her ponytail as Draco waits with baited breath to see which her favourite part is (although he is almost certain it will be the end when Scorpius and Hera get together, as it would be with all girls.)

"'This wasn't him. Like he should, like he always had, he _hated_ love. Love was stupid. Only fools or _girls_ believed in love. And Scorpius wasn't a fool _or_ a girl, but when he was with Hera, he certainly _felt_ foolish. Because how could love not exist when such a feeling arose in him whenever he was with her? How could love not exist when her voice made his heart soar? How could love not exist when he looked at her and knew (whether he wanted to or not) that she was everything he needed? Even though he didn't want it to, and didn't know how it could, Scorpius knew that love existed, because there was proof of it in his very being. He was in love with Hera, and wanted nothing more for his feelings to be returned.'"

Draco stares at Astoria as she closes the book and looks straight at him, her warm brown eyes boring into his own. For a moment everything else falls away, and there is only Astoria staring at him and Draco staring at her, and he feels it, the very feeling he believes does not exist. He can feel it in the air, hear it ringing in his own head and see it in her. They are leaning in towards each other and the atmosphere is enveloping them and suddenly Draco can't take it- he hits the brakes and yanks himself backwards, tearing his eyes away from hers. "You don't actually _believe_ that bullshit, do you?"

Astoria opens her mouth to speak and pauses, as if having an internal struggle over what to say, then decides better of it, standing up, still holding the book. She throws the book at him and he catches it (even though he isn't as good as Potter, his seeker reflexes are still good). "Yes, I do, actually, and maybe you should try to too. Who knows, you might need it some day." She is angry at herself for not thinking of a better retort, but it's all she can manage.

Draco frowns at her. "And why would _I _need love?" he says, throwing the book aside.

"Nobody can hope to live without love," she says, staring at him coldly (he tries to ignore the tears in her eyes), before turning on her heel and marching away from him, bells around her ankles jangling.

He entwines his fingers once more with the grass to anchor him to the ground, to prevent him from stopping her from leaving; to stop him from telling her the truth. He breathes slowly and concentrates on it. In and out, in and out.

(He tries to convince himself it is the heat that does it.)


	18. Parvati Patil

**Our Time**

_Parvati Patil_

**by xoxcrescentmoonxox**

**_**

Parvati measures her life in school years. First year, Sorting; second year, magic; third year, boys, and so on. But her love – that she measures in summers, in the times when it's just her and Padma.

Forever.

-

Before Hogwarts, summers aren't important. The girls are just PadmandParvati in the heat instead of PadmandParvati in the cold. But once Parvati is in Gryffindor while her sister is in Ravenclaw, summer is their only time for their two halves to combine back into a whole.

-

The summer after first year is the Summer of Wonder. Wonder, why they're in two separate houses.

"It's not like I'm really brave, or you're really smart," Parvati says, leaning back against the scratchy boards of their porch swing.

Padma smiles. "I know. We're identical."

"I know." Parvati pulls a stand of her hair from her bun, then a similar sized one from Padma's. Absentmindedly she combines them, then groups them into three and begins to braid.

"Maybe –" Padma's mouth twists. "Maybe we should have been planned ahead what we'd be thinking. Like, were you telling the hat you weren't _so_ scared of the Sorting, or thinking to yourself that you'd just counted, and there were exactly eleven grey haired teacher?"

Parvati tugs on their hair, laughing. "Pads, is that what you were telling it? And anyway, I think it looks at more than our immediate thoughts. Because –" She grins at her sister. "Because all I could think was how badly I had to pee."

Although she laughs for a little while, it doesn't take Padma long to become sober again. She fingers the strands of their hair, woven together so neither girl can tell whose is whose.

"So why," she asks, "Did the Sorting Hat decide you were braver?"

-

The summer after second year is the Summer of Joy. Joy, because after two years of separation and one giant snake, they are still safe, and still PadmandParvati like when they were ten.

Because this is the last time they'll have together before they're grown teenagers, they run wild that summer; do things they never would have dreamed of even a month before at school. They make fortresses and secret passageways; become princesses that live in ivory towers and sorceresses that slay dragons. And on the last day, they sit facing each other in a small clearing and make a pact.

"Spirits of the wood, snakes of the undergrowth," Parvati intones. When Padma giggles, she kicks her ankle. "Shush. This is how you make a pact stick."

"Fine." Padma rolls her eyes. "Spirits of the wood, snakes of the undergrowth," she repeats, "Hear our call."

Parvati nods approvingly. "We, the great temptresses of the forest, commonly known as Parvati and Padma Patil, would like to make a vow." She squeezes Padma's hand to get her to take over.

"Um . . . we pledge that, while autumn, winter, and spring may belong to the rest of our lives, summer is only our's."

"And only grievous sorrow, woe, and death can change these words," finishes Parvati dramatically. By now, the sun is setting, and the girls have to go inside to get ready for the train tomorrow. So with dark hair streaming behind them as they run, they leave their realm of dragons and fairy tales, set to return to the reality of stone castles and magic.

-

The summer after third year is the Summer of Dreams. Dreams, of boys and friendship and the future. Parvati dreams in tea leaves, crystal balls, and prophecies of doom as Professor Trelawney instructed her, while Padma's are riddles and unsolvable questions, as Ravenclaw has hardened her to consider.

Parvati dreams about her friend Dean Thomas; of the slightly older Lee Jordan; even occasionally of Draco Malfoy, purely on looks. But most of all, she dreams of Harry Potter.

(He is only a dream. She knows that Dean is the one attainable boy of her lot, and that hoping for Lee, Draco, or especially Harry is a waste of imagination.)

Padma tells her sister that she dreams about Michael Corner. She paints such a vivid picture of his chestnut waves, single dimple, and bright blue eyes that Parvati never suspects that these are all lies to protect her.

(Like her sister, Padma dreams of untidy black hair; an oddly shaped scar and flashing green eyes. But she knows that Harry will never go for a girl he's barely spoken once to. The best chance she has with him is if he and Parvati date, and he mistakes Padma for her twin.)

But the holiday continues, and as June stretches into July stretches into August, those dreams run dry with no new encounters to fuel them. It's a blessing for the girl's imaginations when they return to Platform 9¾ in September and are able to re-realize the sparks that carried into that summer.

-

The summer after fourth year is the Summer of Discovery. Discovery, because in addition to the increased knowledge of the Wizarding world they'd acquired with the Triwizard Tournament, their mother announces that they'll go on holiday to Muggle India so the girls can learn that side of their heritage.

Parvati's favorite part of the vacation are the nights. They're staying in Calcutta, in a cramped hotel that overlooks a large _bazaar_. Once their mother falls asleep in the next room, the girls ease open the window and pull themselves onto the flat roof, Parvati climbing ahead to help her less nimble sister grab onto the gutter.

When they look up, there's no sign of civilization, but constellations dance across the sky. Parvati comments on the first night that the four stars zigzagging like a bird's wing foretell sudden disaster – but Padma, laughing, tells her that it's only Cassiopeia, and she should stop listening to Professor Trelawney.

The next night, they make up their own constellations: Twin Temptresses, Snake Charmer, Summer Sandal, and White Sari.

"Why white?" Parvati asks.

Padma shrugs. "What color would _you _call the stars?"

"Hey, you're the Ravenclaw!" Parvati flips over on her belly and peers into the market stalls below. After a couple seconds, Padma joins her.

The _bazaar_ is every bit as bustling as the sky was expansionless. Even in the dark, many stalls are still erect; a place for con men and soothsayers to sell their wares without being ousted by the _devanagari_.

"Come on!" Parvati nudges her sister. "Let's get our fortunes told!"

Padma sighs. "'Vati, it's you who believes in all that, not me."

"All the more reason; you can hold my hand when they say death is near."

"_Fine_." Padma huffs her breath out loudly, but grins a little, and heads for the fire escape ladder ahead of her sister.

Parvati dislikes the way the men leer at her and Padma as they weave their way through the darkened maze of stalls, wearing only their pyjama camisole sets. She's relieved when they find a tent, properly patterned and mysterious looking, that's also slightly out of the way.

"Good day, my dears," croons a wrinkled old woman in a heavily accented voice as they pull the flap back. "Or should I say, good night?" She frowns up at the top of the tent to the sky as if it had disrupted her greeting. Padma rolls her eyes, and even Parvati can't quite keep from giggling.

"You'll want to know your fortunes?" she asks, lighting a stick of incense. The girls nod, and Parvati pushes Padma forwards.

"Her first!" she says, dropping several _rupees_ into the fortuneteller's hands.

"Ah, a born leader," the woman says, drawing the folds of her sari around her and motioning to Padma. Parvati blushes a deep red as her sister sits down.

The soothsayer takes one of Padma's hands in her two, then turns it palm-up, tracing the lines with her index finger. "The line of your heart . . . long, wavy; free like your own emotions. The line of your life swoops across itself . . ." The fortune teller frowns briefly, then returns to Padma's hand. "And the line of your head is crisscrossed with that of your life.

"You are young, happy, and beautiful now; as so you will be forever. Immortalized – by your _death_." She leans back and closes her eyes as the twins stare first at her, then at each other, in horror.

Without looking at them, the soothsayer raises her hands. "What, you think I have more? No! That's all. Get out. _Jao_!"

"Come on!" cries Parvati, taking her stunned sister's arm and, shaking, pulling her back through the marketplace to the hotel. Once they're safe on the roof again, Padma turns to her sister, who is as pale now as she was moment ago.

"Come on, 'Vati," Padma says, giving Parvati's hand a squeeze. "Doom and gloom. How is that any different from what Trelawney predicts for all of you?" She laughs nervously.

Parvati frowns, a thousand answers running through her mind. Trelawney's not as foreboding. Her predictions happen in a sunny classroom, not a darkened tent. She has bat glasses and silly dangling chains. But there's only one important reason. "Harry and Neville and Seamus and even Lavender could be gone and I'd still be whole. Without you – I'm missing myself."

"Well then –" Padma pauses, purple nightdress limp around her figure in the humid air. "I guess we'll have to go together."

"You're right." Parvati pushes her hair back from her face. "I promise."

Padma turns to her sister, stricken. "No, I didn't mean it like that! Besides, that soothsayer didn't know anything."

Parvati swallows hard. "Well, good. Then I won't have to."

"Parvati . . ."

"Padma . . . wouldn't you do the same thing?"

It's impossible for Padma to keep from nodding. _Yes._

-

The summer after fifth year is the summer that's wrong. Wrong, because Lavender has finally wheedled Parvati in allowing her to stay for a while.

At first, Parvati thinks it's like having two sisters instead of one. But as days go on, Lavender talks more – so Padma stops talking. Lavender giggles more – so Padma stops giggling. Lavender stays up later – so Padma goes to bed with the sun.

As for Parvati, she wishes she'd never persuaded her sister to let her break the pact of three years ago. The night Lavender leaves, Parvati follows Padma into her room, then sits down on her sister's blue and purple bedspread, picking nervously at the embroidery.

"Sorry," she says, biting her lip.

"For what?" replies Padma, tonelessly.

Parvati sighs. "The whole past month."

"It's okay," Padma says, without much conviction. "It's just, you have nine months with her. Why'd she have to take any of your three with me?"

"Because . . ." Parvati reaches over and pinches her sister's arm. "Because I wasn't blessed with those Ravenclaw brains that realized it was a bad idea."

Padma glances down at her sister, splayed on the bedspread and already at ease again. Then she thinks of herself, slightly angry with her twin, but even more with herself, for letting Parvati make yet another decision for the both of them. _Yes,_ she thinks sadly, _These Ravenclaw brains certainly are a blessing_.

-

The summer after sixth year is the Summer of Hope. Hope, because even though Dumbledore is dead, the Dark Lord is on the rise, and Hogwarts is no longer so safe, the sisters are still young, happy, and confident that he'll be brought down soon.

(What neither remembers is that two years ago, an Indian soothsayer described them similarly. If they had thought back to that, they might have been less brash; less assured.)

However, determined to make up for the disappointment of last summer, Parvati and Padma do everything together that they can think of, not limiting themselves to their house, their woods, or even their town. It doesn't matter yet to them that shops are being boarded up, pubs shut down, and wards placed because of Voldemort. They are perfectly happy with their new Apparation licenses, taking day trips to the sea, meeting Dean Thomas, Michael Corner, and even Lavender Brown in Muggle London; happy with once, on Parvati's urging, pranking Seamus Finnegan.

Yes, their summer is far distant from the struggle of the rest of the wizarding world. If they had known, those months, that Michael would be leaving school soon and Dean not coming back at all, they might have cherished those visits more. If any crystal ball could have foretold the fall of the Ministry, the corruption of Hogwarts, the coming of the Carrows – maybe they would have listened.

But instead they're granted a reprieve from the danger during those hot months. And on September first, the train pulls up and the sisters part to go to their separate compartments, both leave the same thought unsaid.

_We will never have summer like this again._

-

The next summer comes after seventh year. After the war.

After Padma.

For three months, Parvati is lost, flailing around in dark water that pulls her deeper the more she struggles. Every familiar landmark of home she passes has a memory attached to it. Each glance in the mirror gouges at her heart. She pulls small strands from her bun then reaches for her sister's hair to braid with it, too late remembering that it's not there.

The soothsayer didn't lie: Padma is forever young, happy, and beautiful. It's Parvati who lied. For she is still on the earth, still far away from her sister.

Every night Parvati whispers to her in the darkness, telling herself that her sister is still in the room across the hall. She tries to make Padma understand her wonder, her joy, her dreams, her discoveries, and her hope, but all of that winds back to memories. Because those are all she cares about, now.

One night Paravati unconsciously goes into Padma's room instead of her own. No one has changed it; it's as it has been forever: blue and purple bedspread, tall wardrobe in the corner, gauzy white curtains.

As nothing has been removed, she slips into her sister's purple pyjamas, leaving her similar orange ones discarded on the floor. The she sits at the vanity; picks up her Padma's hairbrush and unbraids her hair, retying it with one of Padma's blue clips to replace her own.

When she looks in the mirror, it's like talking to her sister.

"Padma?" Parvati reaches towards the reflection and touches the cold reflection.

"Padma, now I know why I'm not in Ravenclaw."

The girl in the mirror begins to cry.

"I'm too stupid to have gone with you that night."

Now the mirror-girl stretches both her hands to Parvati, and their fingers join against the hard, glassy division.

"But I shouldn't be in Gryffindor either," Parvati confesses. "I'm too cowardly to keep my promise and come back to you now." She shudders; chokes out a long, gasping sob – and so does Padma in the mirror.

"Please," Parvati implores, swallowing a sob, "Don't leave me."

The reflection grows blurred from tears, and the more Parvati reaches; the more she entreats, the more her sister seems to dissolve before her eyes. Parvati rips out the blue hair clip and throws it at the mirror; tears away her sister's pyjamas – and suddenly, Padma has just vanished. Only Parvati's own reflection remains.

"You said we'd go together! You lied to me!" Parvati grabs the lamp from her sister's bedside table and heaves it at the mirror, watching cracks begin to spider-web across it. Then she knocks everything else off the vanity table and plunges the heel of her hand into the center of the fissure. When it comes out bloodied, she feels no pain.

As she destroys the mirror, Parvati destroys everything that she and her sister have built up over the past seven years. She sends their wonder, joy, dreams, discoveries, and hope cascading to the floor together with the silvery slivers.

With the destruction of that legacy, she shatters all of the empty holidays to come. For with only a half of their whole, summers of PadmandParvati will become summers of Parvati.

Forever.

(And that's no summer at all.)


	19. Victoire Weasley

**Wistful**

_Victoire Weasley_

**by PrincessPearl**

Music, sweet and melodic, floated through the open window, reaching Victoire's ears as she hummed along to the song. Beyond the horizon, the sun lit everything up with rays of orange and gold, setting an appropriate mood for a song about summer.

Abruptly, the music stopped. "Vicka!" Teddy called to her through the window in his piano room.

"Yeah?" Victoire twisted her body so she could properly see Teddy. "What's up?"

Teddy flashed her a grin. "Could you come up here? I have something for you."

Victoire smiled, standing up. "Sure. But my birthday was last month," she teased.

"I know." As she walked closer, she thought she saw a hint of nervousness in Teddy's constantly-shifting features. "This is, ah, something else."

Suppressing her curiosity, Victoire hurried inside, waving at Andromeda before heading upstairs to where Teddy was. He was waiting, both his hair and his eyes electric blue, wearing a half-smile.

"So, what did you want to give me?" Victoire asked, sitting down beside him in front of the piano.

"Well, first, I wanted you to hear my latest song," Teddy explained, hands poised above the keys.

"Well?" Victoire smiled encouragingly, nudging his shoulder. "Go on, play it."

Teddy hesitated for a moment before he began playing, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys, creating a soft, harmonious sound, filled with an emotion Victoire couldn't quite put her finger on until he hit the poignant chorus. Suddenly, the entire song sounded, of all things, wistful, a kind of longing Victoire couldn't begin to understand.

She frowned, confused. Every song Teddy wrote, he wrote from his experiences. But what would make him write a song like that?

"Teddy?" she asked quietly. Teddy stopped playing at the sound of her voice.

"Yeah?" He didn't look at her, instead staring down at the black and white keys.

"What's the song about?" Victoire asked him.

"Um." Teddy tapped some random keys. "Someone. Anyways, I have a question for you. You know that amusement park we used to go to all the time as kids?"

"Imagination Park?" Victoire asked, smiling. "Yeah, what of it?"

"Well, they recently rebuilt it, you know, added more rides—cooler rides, and stuff. And I was wondering if…" Teddy trailed off and reached into his shirt pocket to produce a colorful ticket with the name of the park written in bold letters. He waited a beat, then pushed the ticket aside to reveal an identical one.

"If you wanted to go with me," he finished, looking up at her.

"Of course I do!" Victoire said immediately, smiling at him, when she realized there was a look of intensity in Teddy's eyes. The summer sunlight which had been such a mood-setter earlier that afternoon suddenly highlighted every raw emotion written on Teddy's face, and Victoire felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight.

"On a date?" she asked, her voice much quieter than before.

Teddy's eyes shifted from blue to green to brown and back. "Yeah," he confirmed. Their breaths mingled openly in the air between them, and Victoire felt hyper-aware of the fact that his lips hovered dangerously close, and his hair, turquoise blue and windswept, brushed her forehead as he leaned closer.

Before she could stop herself, Victoire reached up to tangle her hands in his hair. The tickets slide down onto her lap as Teddy lifted one hand to her waist and the other to her cheek.

"Yes," Victoire breathed, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. "I'll go with you."

She felt more than saw Teddy's smile. "I was hoping you'd say that," he told her, before leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers.

Sunrays beamed down upon the two of them from the window, somehow making the kiss that much sweeter. When he finally pulled back, after what seemed like an eternity, Victoire found herself smiling at him, despite the racing of her heart.

"You know that song about summer I wrote a few days ago?" Teddy asked her, his breath coming in gasps, just like hers.

"Yeah, what about it?" Victoire trailed one of her hands down to his so she could lace their fingers together.

"I think I've got a new verse to add to it," Teddy grinned at her and pulled back, keeping one hand entwined with hers and using the other to play the notes of the chorus.

Victoire laughed, feeling the ever-present burdens of her upcoming NEWTs and graduation and future jobs melt away as she listened to Teddy play, her hand in his, and her eyes fixed on sun as it sank below the horizon to mark the end of a fateful summer day.


	20. Katie Bell

**This Summer**

_Katie Bell_

**By mackgirl**

Katie lay on top of her hospital bed, staring blankly at the wall. It had been two days since the pain had stopped and the Aurors had just left her alone after explaining that it was now April and to question her to see if she could remember whom it was that had passed her the necklace. Katie could not remember though, and she did not try to think about it. Instead, she was depressed; months of her life had gone by with her being unable to remember anything but pain. Wiping at her eyes she was glad that her family was not around, the Healers had said they would be by that evening, which gave Katie time to reflect on the thought that she had lost months from her life.

"It's damn depressing in here."

Katie shot up in her bed only to see George Weasley leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded and a huge smile on his face.

"George?" Katie whispered, afraid to believe that he was actually standing there.

George came into the room, closing the door behind him, before he went and sat on the bed next to her. "Glad to see your mind hasn't been affected after all. When Keith came by this morning to let me know you had finally woken up, took him damn long enough seeing as how you woke up two days ago, he wasn't sure what state you might be in since they hadn't let him come up to see you yet."

"You saw Keith?" Katie asked suddenly longing to see her older brother.

"Yeah, he comes into the shop and takes every damn item it seems like off the shelves, asking a million questions about how they work and ignoring my questions about how you were and if you had woken up yet. Keith doesn't by a thing and just before he walks out the door he goes 'By the way George, Katie woke up two days ago.'" George stated, "He did tell me that he would be up to see you later and that only family could visit right now."

"How'd you get up here then?" Katie questioned.

George laughed, "I cursed Fred, he's in a room down the hall and that made it simple to sneak in here."

Katie threw her arms around George and started to cry, while George held her tightly and rubbed her back, "It's okay Katie, really. I'm just glad your okay."

It was several minutes before Katie pulled away, wiping at her eyes with one hand as George handed her a tissue. "So what are your plans this summer?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, I've been a little preoccupied." Katie remarked as she sniffed.

"All the better to make plans now, personally I can't wait for all the little buggers to get out of Hogwarts. Summer means less owl-orders I have to put together." George commented.

Katie swat at him, "I'm still at Hogwarts."

"This makes another reason why I'm looking forward to summer; you won't have to go back to Hogwarts." George added grinning.

Katie rolled his eyes, "I can't wait for it to be warm, I'm tired of this cold weather."

"How would you know it's been cold, you've been out of it for the worst of winter." George teased, earning him another swat from Katie.

"Funny George." Katie remarked, "I want to go to the beach."

"You have to go to Bill's wedding with me." George added, "It's going to be this summer."

"And you have to come over to my Grandpa's farm this summer; it'll do you some good to have to do hard labor without the help of magic." Katie stated.

George gasped, "No magic, in that case you have to help at the shop this summer, it'll do you good to have to deal with all those little Hogwarts buggers."

"Well someone will have to keep you and Fred from inadvertently killing each other…" Katie started to tease before George cut her off with a kiss.

"This summer is going to be perfect." Katie muttered before kissing George again.

INSERT BREAK

Katie found George sitting up against a tree in the orchard that so often had turned into a Quiditch Pitch. She sat down next to him before pulling George into her arms.

"So what are we going to do this summer?" Katie asked.

"I hadn't really thought about it, I've been a little preoccupied." George commented with a ghost of a grin.

"I was thinking we should travel, get out of England for a while." Katie responded.

"Where should we go?" George questioned.

Katie grinned, "How about where ever we end up, Fleur told me about this place in France we should visit…"

George started to chuckled, "How about we go to the beach?"

"A world tour of beaches?" Katie countered.

"Why not it'll be summer soon, nothing is stopping us." George remarked.

Katie kissed George before stating, "It might not be the best summer ever but we'll make it George. This summer is for healing."


	21. Astoria Greengrass

**Roses and Riddles  
**

_Astoria Greengrass  
_

**by -EHWIES**

They still meet up in the summer sometimes, the ones left from Draco's year. He always invites her; she always declines—too many false niceties for her style. She was naïve enough to attend once, right after they were married, when everyone wanted to meet the new Malfoy bride; just the once.

She had always been the favored child, growing up—the beloved Greengrass daughter at Christmas parties and the ringleader of her year's pureblood girls. But Astoria hardly noticed Blaise Zabini's leers and Draco's overprotection: never did Daphne look her in the eyes.

She made no reconciliations after that night—but all the begging her new husband could muster couldn't convince her to go again.

So it takes Astoria by surprise when Pansy Parkinson Apparates into her backyard at half past one on an August morning, well into the Slytherins' annual gathering. She hasn't been to the manor in a good few years and miscalculates accordingly, tumbling right into one of Narcissa's rosebushes. "My mother-in-law spends hours a day pruning those, you know," says Astoria disdainfully—she doesn't much care for the pug-faced prefect who shoots her dirty looks whenever she's within eyeshot, and they _clash_, the apples of the purebloods' eyes.

Pansy stands, a few petals still clinging to her robes, and conceals the faintest hint of a scowl. "Funny. I don't see her out here now." True to their lineage, she gives Astoria not snide insults but carefully worded wounds.

"She tends to her garden in the early evening, when the sun is setting and there is no company to disturb her," Astoria dismisses—two can play at this game.

Unfazed, Pansy says, "Yet here you are, newborn in tow, outdoors at the hottest hour of the day. A bit—foolish, don't you think, considering the baby?"

Pansy's a bitter little thing, all acid rain and sardonic smiles, and smug Astoria clutches Scorpius to her chest as though to protect him from the elder witch's very aura. It's a beautiful day—the leaves and blossoms of the backyard's flora rustle every so often in a breeze that almost, _almost_, eases the heat. "I could say the same of you, Pansy, but that this isn't your yard and you remain, sadly, childless. Still haven't found a suitor willing to bestow his children with your… _attributes_, have you?"

Pansy ignores this, perhaps from dignity, perhaps shame. "Scorpius Hyperion, is it? May he be like his father, Merlin permitting."

"Don't you have a reunion to get to?" suggests Astoria (she calmly pushes Daphne's hurt from her mind). She looks straight into Pansy's sneering eyes and thinks, hard, _why are you really here_?

Shrugging, Pansy seats herself delicately in the adjacent chaise and diverts her gaze to the sleeping child. "Goyle's hosting. I thought I'd spare myself the food poisoning."

As if on cue, Scorpius stirs in her arms and grasps for his mother's neck. "We've already eaten, if that's what you were expecting," Astoria lies smoothly—lunch at the manor is served daily at two o'clock, half an hour from now. "There is nothing here that you could want."

"No," Pansy muses, "there is nothing you could give me that you have not already tainted."

Somehow, Astoria doesn't think that they're talking about lunch anymore.

The fall of Voldemort has hardened Pansy maybe more than the war itself did, and Astoria can't understand why Daphne still likes her—why Draco still talks with her from time to time. Astoria herself… she tries not to remember that Draco chose her for her status or that she didn't mind being a trophy wife, then. "Let it go," she says roughly—Scorpius is clamoring for her breast, and she has no more time for riddles. "Draco is my husband, and he has no use for flings of the past." (She has this, at least, to be proud for, and she clings to the shards of what-she-once-was.)

"You say that now," says Pansy, rising and straightening her robes. "Give my best to Lucius and Narcissa." She takes her time Disapparating, her eyes trained to little Scorpius all the while.

It amazes Astoria how civil their tones of voice have remained.

_(…and she still kisses Draco in the summer sometimes and remembers when he would taste like acid rain…)_


	22. Angelina Johnson

**Here Comes The Sun**

_Angelina Johnson_

**by Violin Ghost**

_**Sunday**_

The wind was howling.

Angelina had once been afraid of the moaning it made; but now, it sounded _sad_ to her, like a call for someone who was lost. "The wind isn't scary, darling," her mother had told her as she shivered under the covers. "He's lonely. Can't you hear him? He's looking for someone."

She slammed down the bottle she had been drinking out of so fiercely, it cracked against her wooden table.

Winters before the war had never been like this. Winter had once meant snowball fights and hot cocoa and ringing bells and laughter and green and red and frost. It had meant warmly blazing fires; it had meant family. But Angelina Johnson, all of twenty two years and all alone, didn't have a family anymore. It hadn't mattered that first Christmas, because Alicia had only lost a leg, not a mother, and had taken her home that year. But this year—this year limp ribbons were scattered across the Diagon Alley flat she shared with her thoughts, and she could hear children singing Christmas carols outside her window.

She watched wine seep through the cracks in the glass and trickle down her arm. She almost wished she could give one of her legs up, if it kept the loneliness from swallowing her whole.

She sat with her back against the wall and drank from her broken bottle.

.

_**Monday**_

Angelina was finished with self-pity.

If winter was hard, then damn it, she was going to bring summer into her life, because Angelina never settled for anything less than what she wanted, and that was that.

She rolled up her sleeves (and rolled them down again, it was _cold_), brought out her mum's old CD collection, and plunked herself in front of the windows. She had learned the charm ages ago—surely after some experimentation she'd get it right.

She spent the morning wiping the memories winter dredged up off her windows. A carefully placed Weather Viewing Filter made the streets outside gleam and smile in simulated sunshine, freed from their snow-chains; she waltzed the tip of her wand across the surface of the glass, and the delicate patterns of frost slowly softened into clarity; and after a cartload of curses, several ill-advised kicks directed towards the wall, and a hasty consultation of her old textbooks, she discovered (remembered) a charm to make the softly-falling snow disappear from view. She was pleased—she sat on the sofa and let the music wash over her, but she'd always been the sort of girl who simply couldn't sit still, and before she knew what was happening, her foot was tapping on the floor, and suddenly she was off the sofa and shaking her hair out and laughing as she danced.

"Little darling," she sang with the recording, "it's been a long, cold, lonely winter…"

"Angelina?"

She came to a crashing halt and spun around, and of _course_ George Weasley was standing there in his knitted hat and coat, looking torn between confusion and laughter.

"You could've knocked," she said.

"I did," George said. "I guess you didn't hear me." He grinned openly and nodded towards the CD player. "My dad has one of those things in our garage, but he reckons it's a remote for getting the toilet to clean itself. He'll go mental when I tell him it's for music." He brought out a small purple pot from the depths of his coat and placed it on her table. "You asked for one of our pimple vanishers last week, and I hadn't seen you out and about for a while, so I thought I'd come over and bring it."

Angelina remained silent, waiting for him to ask.

"So… what's all this?" He looked at the windows, at the CD player, and at Angelina.

She lifted her chin. "I'm making summer."

The best thing about Fred and George had been the fact that they never thought anything was too ridiculous.

"Can I help?" said George.

.

_**Tuesday**_

"Do you think I'm a little mad," she asked, "trying to force a bloody season on my flat?"

George held up some blue material and looked at it critically. "Madness is underrated. Do you prefer this or the white muslin?"

"I like this one better than either, actually," Angelina said, trailing her fingers across the bolt of lavender cotton. She could just imagine the color fluttering in a summer breeze. George helped her pull out the bolt and after they'd ordered two yards of it, they walked back to her flat, the parcel swinging merrily on George's arm. "So," he said, looking at her closely, "why _are_ you, to quote your ever eloquent phrase, "trying to force a bloody season" on your flat?"

She shrugged and, because she couldn't think of anything else to say, muttered, "I hate winter."

Surprise rolled over his face for an instant, but he managed to control his expression, and Angelina remembered all over again that he'd become more thoughtful and quiet over the past two years. "It's because of Christmas," she burst out. "I've always spent it with Mum, and she… she isn't here anymore."

George looked at her intently. He'd changed, but was still himself in many ways. "There's still… you know… there's still hope."

Angelina shook her head. "Half the muggleborn witches and wizards taken were never found. Some of their bodies turned up last year, and if my mum hasn't been found by this time… I don't think she's coming back."

"I'm sorry."

"It's been two years," she responded with a light shrug, and she gave his arm a friendly squeeze. They understood each other.

The afternoon was spent struggling with the lavender cloth and laughing their heads off, as her mum's music softly played in the background and the snow, hidden by the charms on Angelina's windows, stirred itself up into a storm outside the warmth of the flat.

"I _think_ it's okay," said Angelina with a bite of pride in her voice, as they surveyed their work.

"Don't be stupid," George said, rolling his eyes, "it's loads better than it was yesterday."

The wretched red-and-green ribbons had all been taken down, as well as the rest of the Christmas décor, and her small tree had Vanished from its place beside her dining table. Brand new lavender cotton curtains rustled gently by the windows, touched by a simulated breeze.

Angelina sniffed, surprised. "I can smell the sea."

George bowed.

.

_**Wednesday**_

Angelina had sometimes caught herself in the middle of Fred and George when she looked at the remaining twin—the memory of a boy she'd sort-of-liked, and the very real reality of George. But now—now it was just _George_. She'd known that they had always been distinct, two entirely different people; but as she and George worked together, she found herself, for the first time in two years, not thinking of Fred at all when she looked at his twin's face. Maybe it was the sting of his death beginning to lessen, but somehow, she didn't think so. She thought it might just be the fact that she was rediscovering George all over again, and it felt _good_.

He'd brought a few things over from the shop, and she felt like a child during Christmas as she rummaged among the parcels.

"These are great, George," she said, offering a grin. "Thanks, really. Just tell me how much all of it costs and I'll—"

But he was already shaking his head. "Nah, don't bother. I kind of feel like you're doing me a favor, letting me help you out." He laughed at the contradiction. "Just make good use of this one time," he warned. "You're not getting a discount from WWW for about… twenty years after this."

"Sounds fair." She helped herself to some Grass-Growing Granules and scattered them on the rug at the feet of the sofa. Lush, soft grass curled around her ankles.

They forgot grief and responsibilities and were children that day, tramping through a kingdom of toys and wild imaginings, as they hoisted fluttering mechanical birds up into the air (they had to take them all down afterwards, the mess of metal pellets that resulted was overwhelming), flung Grass-Growing Granules and shouts of laughter at each other, and made a colorful, wonderful mess of Angelina's ordinarily neat flat. It took them ages to clean up the damage, and occasional bursts of uncontrollable laughter necessitated them to take breaks from their work, but eventually, it was finished.

Angelina smiled as George conjured a few butterflies from his wand, to flutter by the wooden swing—they were a lurid purple and every once in a while emitted a loud _bang _accompanied by a bright, silver flash that danced across both their eyelids. George was still George, however changed she thought he was.

"Little darling, the smiles are returning to the faces," sang the CD player, as Angelina bade George a good night and shut the door behind him.

.

_**Thursday**_

"What _is_ this bloody song?" George asked. "You've been playing it for days."

Angelina barely spared him a glance, absorbed in her task. "It seemed appropriate."

"Can you show me how to make the song repeat itself?"

After Angelina had taught him the fine art of rewinding, he listened to the tune trailing gaily into the air as she bent over her book, concentrating hard and barely realizing that she was mouthing the words she was reading.

"Guess it is," he said, when the song's last lingering notes had faded.

"Hmm?" she said absently.

"Appropriate."

"Yeah," she said, still frowning over her book.

"You got it?"

"Almost," Angelina said vaguely, running a hand through her hair. "I'm supposed to say the incantation first and _then_ do the wand movement if I want to make the temperature hotter, because doing the opposite will only lower it… yeah, I think I'm good."

"Go on, then."

She took a deep breath, said the words, and gave her wand a complicated flick.

George's pants caught fire.

"Oh, God," she exclaimed, hurrying forward. In a minute the fire was out, leaving a sooty George and an upset Angelina. She wrung her hands, unsure of what she should do, and her distress must have shown, because George began laughing in her face.

"Look," he said, "I set your hair on fire during fifth year, so we're even now."

Angelina felt her worried expression transform itself into one of thunderous outrage. "That was _you_?"

"Er… no."

Eventually, they figured out how to pull up the temperature and, both smeared with shadows of ash but triumphant, sat back against the edge of the sofa, chuckling a little. "I had _no_ idea that was you," Angelina repeated for the fifth time that day.

"It was Fred's idea," George said, putting his hands up. "He made me do it."

She laughed again, and then realized that he had mentioned his twin's name for the first time in… oh, in ages. She immediately quieted, looking at his face for some sign that they should stop talking, but his eyes were still smiling and suddenly seemed to hold the whole world.

"Look, I've been thinking," he said. "You should come to the Burrow on Saturday. We always have Christmas lunch and you can stay for the rest of the day—the whole family will be there and you know most of them—and Harry'll be there too."

Angelina could feel her heart expanding under his smile, and she cast her gaze to the floor. "Are you… are you serious? I mean, I wouldn't be a bother?"

His voice tilted upward, and she knew his mouth was doing the same. "Mum knows you, she's ready to _adopt_ you. And Dad will practically ambush you because he'll want you to explain plugs and sparks to him, and you know Ron and Harry and Percy and Bill and Fleur, and Charlie's great, really easy to get along with. They want you to come, Mum just about jumped when I told her I'd invite you."

"Really?" The old Angelina would have despised the almost pathetically hopeful note in her voice, but she had been thinking of the lonely Saturday that approached for some time now, and the thought of spending it among noisy siblings and smiling parents and _George_ made her feel impossibly, incredibly tall.

"Would I lie to you?" She finally managed to meet his eyes and, impulsively, threw her arms around him.

"Thank you," she said.

He patted her back.

.

_**Friday **_

"You know," George said, "I actually think we've done it."

Angelina could only nod. It was true—they'd defied frost and sleet and made their own summer, and she felt a deep gladness that went in warm waves all the way down to her toes.

The scene outside her window smiled, summer-young and free of any suffocating snowdrifts or trailing flakes, but the inside was even better. Her beautiful curtains whispered in a breeze that seemed to have been blown all the way from the sea, and fresh, clean grass grew where her round rugs once had. A wooden swing quivered beside her table where her poor Christmas tree had once stood, and purple butterflies drifted lazily, fluttering between sunflowers in cracked jugs that stood on every accessible surface.

She brought out glasses of ice cold lemonade to celebrate, and they toasted each other before drinking deeply. Oh, it _tasted_ like summer, the drink, her flat, her life—this was what summer had meant and would always mean, whether the world came crashing down or not—freedom and heat, swinging music and the smell of lavender and dancing and falling in love.

"Angelina," George said suddenly, standing up, "it isn't finished yet."

"What do you mean?"

He nodded in the direction of the CD player, which had been softly tinkling away all to itself, and he hummed as he pointed his wand at the windows.

"Here comes the sun," he said, smiling, and he flicked his wand.

The windows poured streams of the liquid sunshine of summer, banishing the wintry, splintered light Angelina suddenly realized she'd been enduring for days. The beams pooled lazily around the cracks of her flat and she thought, for the first time that week, that she might actually cry.

But she smiled instead, a smile that filtered summer gold, and she said, "George, thank you. For everything."

His eyes were as blue as the sky. "Thank you too. You don't know how much it's helped me, being able to make some sunshine with you. Winter and Christmas are hard for me too."

They both danced to her mum's music that day, and before he left, he said, "I'll see you at the Burrow tomorrow, don't forget. You might get distracted, now that you have your own personal summer and all."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

George looked at Angelina for a moment, and then gave her a swift kiss on the cheek and a brilliant smile. "See you," he said.

Angelina was too busy trying not to beam too brightly to give him a suitable reply.

.

_**Saturday**_

It was Christmas morning, and Angelina felt _alive_ in a way she hadn't for a while now.

She seated herself on her wide wooden swing and rocked a little, smiling at her noisy purple butterflies. Perfect—it was all completely, utterly perfect, down to the last mote of dust floating in the sunlight. She reached over and grabbed a sunflower from the nearest jug, and she twirled it idly in her hands, rubbing a petal between her fingers. It was a pool of sunshine in itself, the flower—her whole flat was full of sunspots and airy light. She suddenly felt a surge of incredible fondness for _everything_, and she laughed a little, remembering how she had drunk from a broken bottle and thought her life in ruins six days ago.

Angelina was glad she had found her summer, after all. After winter and wandering, she'd been handed the _sun_.

She had the perfect dress in her wardrobe for the Christmas lunch today, a lovely, golden yellow—she'd wear summer in her hair and it would match her eyes, and she'd do it for George, because they'd both helped each other find summer in lives that had felt so empty, and she was _glad_.

Her mum's CD was still playing, and she danced all the way to her bedroom.

"Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting; little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear. Here comes the sun…"

* * *

_The song Here Comes The Sun belongs to the Beatles._


	23. Sirius Black

**Tale of Two Summers**

_Sirius Black_

**by donewithmarblesxx**

_"You know, I don't care!" Sirius screamed, eyes narrowed into slits and his mouth furrowed in a dangerous snarl._

_"You are the only heir!"_

_"Perhaps you didn't hear correctly the first time," he snapped, staring disdainfully at his mother. "I don't care."_

Sirius examines the place with a little smirk, hands on hips, eyes examining every little detail. He can't help but feel immensely proud as if he had bought the place with his own money instead of inheriting it from his generous Uncle Alphard. He always knew that man loved him the best.

"This is brilliant, mate," approves James with a nod, a smile in place.

"I know, I love it," Sirius answers as his eyes glow, thinking of all the possibilities he's opened now that he has his own flat. He can potentially come into the place drunk without Mrs. Potter fussing and scolding him and James staring at him disapprovingly. He can potentially have a night with a girl he met at some pub. He can have a _pet _if he wants to.

"What's the odd smell?" Remus asks with a disgusted air, wandering about the place, sniffing. Sirius shoots him a look, crossing his arms.

"Oi, stop sniffing my flat."

"I can't help sniffing it. It just smells so odd."

Rolling his eyes, Sirius begins to open some of the boxes strewn about, carefully pulling back the bubble wrap and popping one just for the hell of it because he just has _so _much time. He can't help but smile.

_Sirius pulled the trunk from under his bed with a grunt, undid the clasps and pulled the top open with a grave look. The trunk seemed surprised by this action; it was only used for Hogwarts and usually opened with a broad smile. The look on his face seemed out-of-place. _

_Sirius shook out the Chocolate Frog wrappers and old essays from the bottom of his trunk and quietly decided to take almost _everything _that was important; he wouldn't leave behind anything for his mother to leer at and make rude remarks about._

_He shoved in his books, pranking journals, and most importantly, his broomstick. No time for the bubble wrap. No time for anything. Just time for shoving things mercilessly into a trunk._

"You know, this could be used as a gather place," Peter suggests with a prime nod, peeking into Sirius' messy bedroom-to-be.

"_Definitely_," agrees Sirius as he pulls out his broomstick and lean it against the wall with a loving eye. "I mean, it just didn't work when we barged into James' room with kegs of Firewhiskey."

James sniggers and nods. "You know, my mother was never too happy with your antics."

"She's a mother," sighs Peter, rolling his eyes. "Of _course_ she wasn't too happy that her son and his mates were getting dead drunk."

Sirius chuckles, but preoccupied with unpacking to answer. Only Remus is silent, glancing at the walls of the flat as if it was a mouth to swallow them up.

"Won't you be awfully lonely, Sirius?" Remus murmurs _so _softly one could barely hear. You had to prick your ears up and try to catch the quiet question.

"Why the hell would he be lonely?" Peter asks bluntly, obviously wondering why _that _would be a problem.

"Well, he _is _alone in the flat," murmurs James with a little thoughtful expression. He turns his eye to Sirius. "You'll be fine, right?"

Sirius scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Oh please. I'm not a child. I'll be absolutely _fine_."

_"I'll be absolutely fine, I'll be absolutely fine," chanted Sirius in his head as he dragged along his trunk as he stared at the lampposts which provided the golden orbs of light, lighting up the dreary streets of London. "I'll be absolutely fine."_

_He knew where he was going: to the Potter's. It was a sure thing. No strange and dubious questions about it. But he couldn't help but worry._

_"I'll be absolutely fine, I'll be absolutely fine."_

_He knew he was lying. The pricking at his heart had already began._

As he's occupied with pulling out his possessions from boxes, his mates begin to play about, having discovered a Quaffle in one of Sirius' packages, chucking it around with loud bouts of laughter and shouts. Sirius, rolling his eyes, just pulls out the pieces of a bookcase he's to assemble.

"You playing, Sirius?" asks James, his face flushed from running around. Sirius examines his disassembled bookcase with a strange expression. He can't help being indecisive. Should he play? But there was so much work to do...

"Oh, what the hell," Sirius snaps, jumping up from his position, tired of his unnecessary carefulness. "Pass me the Quaffle, Peter!"

_It had been a question that had began a long time ago: should he stay, or should he go? The latter had advantages such as happiness, being with James, his best mate, practically all the time, and he would be finally away from his screeching mother, his statue of a father, and that worthless brother, already a follower of the idiotic blood purity nonsense and Voldemort. It made sense that he should leave, but Sirius was doubtful and frightened, as much as he hated to admit. He was just a coward._

_But it was only because of her taunting that he had finally gained the courage- and the anger to leave._

_"I'll run away!" Sirius threatened when Walburga evaded the privacy of his room and began nonsensical arguments about Voldemort and who he was associating with. "I'll run away so I'll never have to see you and the stupid blood purity shit anymore!"_

_Walburga had barked out in laughter all the while her eyes were still frozen solid in its cruelty. "_You? _Despite your Gryffindor label, you are a _coward_. You could never run away!"_

_"Watch me," Sirius had told her, eyes narrowed dangerous, his lips pressed thinly together. It was a challenge she had given and he'd taken it._

_"You _will _not and _can _not." Walburga, ignoring her son's antics just stood with her arms crossed, a scornful expression on her face. "You are the heir of this family."_

_"You know, I don't care!"_

So Sirius and his mates romp about, laughing loudly until they are so tired they just collapse onto the bare, wooden floor, their bodies still racking with careless laughter that only seventeen-year-old boys can have. Others can only watch enviously.

"You know what I just remembered?" Sirius says, panting from the lack of air and all the laughter he had endured.

"What?" the three ask almost simultaneously.

"It's summer," replies Sirius simply with a boyish smile. "_Summer._"

The other three Marauders mumble back a reply, falling into frantic plans of how this summer should turn out, who they should visit, which parties with Firewhiskey to go to and visiting Diagon Alley. Only Sirius lays back and stares at the ceiling, only a satisfying sentence wet on his lips.

"I'm free," he whispers to no one in particular, staring at the yellow light fixture.

_"I'm free," he whispered, staring at the yellow moon sitting in the midst of the silvery thin clouds. _

Summer never seemed so alluring.


	24. James Potter

**Summer Rain**

_James Potter I_

**by ****debzzz**

James Potter was not a modest boy…although if you'd said this very sentence to him he'd most probably try to jinx you, because _he was not a_ boy_ damn it, he was a _guy. Ever since his sixteenth birthday, he'd renounced the word 'boy' as being too childish for him. Thus, proving the fact he was not modest, tactful or unspoilt.

Because in all truth, James Potter was spoiled beyond limits. From very early in his life he had never been denied a single thing. The word 'no' had been introduced properly to his vocabulary when he was four years old, in contrast to his best friend who claimed that 'no' was the first word he had uttered when his mother had tried to dress him in a very frilly baby outfit.

Now, many may think that this is not healthy at all, but in James' opinion, he turned out pretty nicely, so there was nothing wrong with his upbringing. Of course one Sirius Black might want to disagree with the above conclusion and snort in the process, but again in James' opinion, if he was happy with himself, Sirius and the rest of the world could go and screw themselves. There was, however, one tiny exception to this theory and her name was Lily Evans. But that's another story, for another time.

James, as the spoiled boy…ahem, _guy_ he turned out to be, was currently sulking in his room, furious at the weather that had prevented him from enjoying an afternoon of Quidditch with his dad. He hated summer rain. It made the ground muddy and the air cold. It blocked his view, as his glasses got all wet and the air smelled weirdly. Of course these observations didn't count for autumn, winter or spring rain. Mainly, that's because during these seasons he was normally at Hogwarts, meaning that he could get into mud fights with his fellow Marauders or watch in amusement as Snivellus slipped and fell, rarely accidentally, in muddy puddles.

But today was the first day of July and the rain had ruined his mood. He was sitting on his bed just having finished dinner with his parents and, due to lack of anything interesting to do, was trying to do his Charms summer homework. He was bored out of his mind and was trying very hard to find a distraction, because really, it was July the first and he was _doing homework_…how pathetic was that? He was glad that none of the Marauders was there to witness this horror. He could easily picture Peter's face, mouth hanging wide open, trying – and failing – to understand what was going on through his mind; Remus' satisfied smirk – sly, arrogant werewolf – as he would feel proud for James finally turning into a responsible student (aka geek) and Sirius…well Sirius would either have a have a heart attack and die on the spot or laugh his arse off at him and then leave to find a new best friend, the bastard he is. And thinking of Sirius, there came the distraction he needed. Minnie (short for Minerva – Sirius' idea of a joke), was tapping rather aggressively on his window.

James, excited to have finally found the distraction he wanted, jumped from his bed and ran to the window after tripping only twice on the junk that littered his floor. Once Minnie was inside the room, she flew around as if trying to wet the furniture simply by dripping heavily on them. She was, after all, Sirius' owl.

Once James managed to take hold of her, he unfolded the parchment attached to her leg that had obviously been spelled to repel water, and he knitted his eyebrows in confusion. It was not a letter as much as a short note very much un-Sirius like.

_I'm coming over. Nowhere else to go, hope your parents won't mind._

"Mum!" James shouted at the top of his lungs as he exited his bedroom and ran down the stairs. "Dad!"

He made his way to the living room where his parents were playing Wizard's Chess, one of his mom's favourite pastimes.

"No, James," Mrs Potter sounded rather exasperated. "I already told you, no!"

"What?"

"I said you're not going to ask Twinkle(1) for a chocolate cake! I know you're still growing but eating dessert four times a day will only make you fat…and probably hyper," she added as an afterthought, although James was pretty sure it was the latter she was more worried about, not the former.

"Gee, Mum, it's not like all I think about is food," he told her, but quickly cleared his throat and averted his eyes from hers when she only cocked an eyebrow at him.

"This is not about food," he told his parents, clutching Sirius' note in his hand, "it's about Sirius."

Instantly his parents looked sober and just a bit alarmed. It was not every day James refused to talk about food and instead talk about Sirius with them. They loved Sirius to bits, it's true, but James _was not a girl dammit_ and he didn't like addressing his parents for whatever little thing happened with his friends and they tried not to pry when it came to the brotherly bond between Sirius and James.

"He just owled me and he said he was coming over, I mean he _is_ coming over, as in…he is on his way, probably."

"Why? What's wrong? Did something happen to him? Is everything alright?" Mrs Potter had gotten on her feet and was extracting Sirius' note from James' hands as James simply said, "I dunno."

Mr Potter, upon hearing what James had said, had called Twinkle, their house-elf, and asked her to put an extra bed in James' room as they usually did when Sirius' visited.

"Well?" he asked once Twinkle disappeared with a distinct _plop_. "What happened?"

"I don't know, the note only says he's coming over coz he doesn't have somewhere else to go. He didn't explain why," James said looking vaguely distressed.

As the minutes passed, he got more and more worried for Sirius. Why did he have to leave Grimmauld Place? Why had he sounded so…so un-Sirius like? How was he getting there? Too many questions…

Sirius was his best friend, his brother in every sense of the term, even though they didn't share the same blood. He was the most important person in his life right after his parents. If there was something that could get James all worried and grown-up like, it was Sirius' problems with his family.

Approximately fifteen minutes after James had informed his parents of Sirius' note, the doorbell rang and instead of waiting for Twinkle to answer the door, James ran and yanked it open, maybe with more force than absolutely necessary. He lost his balance and almost fell on Sirius who was standing on the door-step, looking thoroughly drenched and glum.

"Hey," Sirius said quietly, but before James could respond he was being pushed aside by his mother, who was enveloping Sirius in a bear hug.

Noticing the broom Sirius was holding, James asked in bewilderment, "You flew all the way from London?" and then, waiting for a response he added, "Mum, you're suffocating him!"

Mrs Potter drew back and ushered Sirius inside, while Mr Potter took hold of Sirius' shrunken luggage and was turning it back to its normal size.

"Well, yeah, I took the Knight Bus for some time, but grew irritated by that creepy conductor's staring and jabber and got out half way here and then flew on my broom," Sirius said tiredly and then, turning to Mr and Mrs Potter he added, "I'm really sorry to have come on such short notice and at this hour, but-"

"No problem at all, Sirius, my boy," Mr Potter said with a smile. "Don't even mention it."

"Would you like something to eat?" Mrs Potter asked and when Sirius shook his head she added, "Some tea, then?"

"Uh, yeah, some tea would be great, thanks."

All this time James had been barely controlling himself from hopping from foot to foot, as he was dying to ask Sirius _what had happened._ He reckoned his parents wanted Sirius to feel comfortable and calm, but _he wanted to know, dammit_!

"I ran away," Sirius suddenly said, probably sensing James' curiosity and mild agitation.

"What? Really? Tell me what happened!" James almost shouted, looking at Sirius wide-eyed.

"Come on, Sirius, sit down and tell us what happened," Mr Potter added as Twinkle appeared with a tray and four cups of tea.

They all sat in the living-room, Mr and Mrs Potter on the couch and the two boys across them, each one occupying a fluffy armchair. James was staring expectedly at Sirius, his anger ready to make itself known, once he heard what the Black family had done this time to his best friend.

"Well," Sirius begun, a frown on his face, "we were having an early dinner and Regulus – " he practically spat the name of his brother, " – was boasting as usual over how great he is at Quidditch, and how everybody's saying what a fabulous Seeker he is," at this point James snorted, muttering something like '_please!_', "and of course my parents were nodding their approval and saying how proud he was making them, probably thinking that the sun was freaking shining out of his arse – sorry!" he added quickly as he realised he had swore in front of Mrs Potter, but for once she paid it no mind.

"Uh, Sirius, mate, don't tell me you reacted to _that_…" James said. "It's too damn obvious he was actually trying to anger you."

"No, of course not! How dense do you think I am? Anyway, that moment Kreacher arrived with a letter from dear cousin Bella, announcing that she was officially You-Know-Who's follower, if you know what I mean, and that she was expecting Regulus to join her as soon as he was of age, since he was the better son of our family." Sirius finished and it was obvious his anger had started boiling, he was famous for his temper and James had experienced it quite often.

"Wait one tic," James told him, "she wrote _that_ in a letter?"

"Yeah, but it was jinxed and cursed and all that Dark staff in order to prevent anyone from reading it but the Black family members, although I'm pretty sure I was excluded."

Mr Potter was looking determined, probably trying not to outwardly show his disgust of the matter and Mrs Potter was looking really sad. "Tell us what happened next, dear," she said after a moment of silence.

"Well, in all honesty I was a bit quick to react," Sirius said but not at all sheepishly, "and I started laughing saying something like 'yeah, right, as if Reg could actually do anything like that' and as expected my parents defended him, saying that of course that was the right thing to do, as the _Dark Lord_ was obviously so much cleverer than most wizards and I had no right talking about staff like that."

"They really do support him, don't they? Of course most purebloods do these days…" Mr Potter said shaking his head.

"Yeah, they do, but not overtly so, wouldn't like to mess their image in the high society should something go wrong…cowards!"

"Yeah, well, what happened then?" James inquired again. "How did you end up leaving?"

"I called them cowards and hypocrites and then mother said she was ashamed I was part of her family. I told Regulus that I once thought he was better that that lot and I was disappointed in him, since, you know, he was looking all proud and stuff with what our parents had said. And then father got up and told me that as long as I lived under his roof I had no right to talk like that, that I was the shame of the whole Black clan, right after Dromeda and Uncle Alfard and well…I had enough and told them that I'd better be like them than like Reg or Bella and I would be more than happy to leave and never call them my family again."

"Wow, I bet they weren't impressed!" James added helpfully.

"No, they weren't," Sirius said and then he continued, "I got to my room, I packed my things and as I got to the door, mother blasted my name off the family tree and father said that if I ever dared to go back he'd Crucio me. I shot a hex in Regulus' direction, just for good measure, but I was out of the door before I saw whether it missed him or not."

"I hope it did hit him!" James said fervently. "Little bastard, thinks he's better than you. Arrogant, little shit!"

"James! Language!" Mrs Potter scolded her son and he simply rolled his eyes. "Oh, Sirius," she said as she got up and made her way to where Sirius was sitting, "you're better off on your own. They still are your parents, but it's better to find your own way…I'm sorry to say, they aren't good people." She placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"Mrs Potter, you don't have to sugar-coat it for me…I just quit my family, remember?"

"Yes, you're right. You can stay here; don't even try to think of somewhere else to go, okay? You come of age next December, am I right?"

"Yes, on December 20th - and thanks for letting me stay," Sirius said.

"Of course, dear. As long as you promise not to demolish the house along with James you can stay for as long as you'd like."

"Oh, _come on_!" James said rolling his eyes again. "Okay, let's go upstairs Sirius. We promise not to make anything explode!"

"Sirius," Mr Potter said as Sirius got up to follow James, smiling for the first time since he arrived, "do you know if the fact that your parents disinherited you, will affect your Uncle's will?"

"Uncle Alfard's will? No, I don't know, but I don't think so."

"Well, we could go to the Ministry one of these days. I still have many close friends in the Department of Law Enforcement – they could take a look at things. Is that okay?"

"Yes, of course!" Sirius said grinning. "Thank you, Mr Potter!"

"Sleep well, boys," Mrs Potter called after them.

Later that night, James was on his bed, sprawled on his stomach, a parchment in front of him and a quill in his hand. Sirius was lying on his bed, idly playing with an ancient toy of James he had found somewhere on the floor.

They had talked a bit, mostly making fun of Regulus, inventing new names to call Bella, planning Snivellus' demise and making plans for the next days. James couldn't pretend for the life of him that he was sad with how things had turned out. He was beyond glad that Sirius wouldn't have to go back to Grimmauld Place ever again, and beyond exhilarated that they would get to spend the whole summer together.

They had two months to themselves and one week with the rest of the Marauders when they would visit in mid-August. Two months, of pranks, Quidditch, copying homework from one another, swimming in the lake nearby and preparing his new and improved lines and moves for seducing one Lily Evans. Not that Sirius would be much help in that, but still, he would be in a better mood and that definitely wasn't a bad thing.

Ah…thinking of Evans, James let his mind wonder, his eyes glazing a bit…as they glazed when the sun shone on those lustrous, silky hair of hers or when she smiled that bright smile of hers, small white teeth like pearls showing, her soft pink lips stretching over them; but he didn't really know if they were soft, he realised. They did look soft, but he didn't know for a fact. He had to find a way to take her on a date, so he could find out for himself –

"JAMES!" Sirius' shout reached his ears and he gave a start, turning his head towards his friend.

"What?"

"Are you deaf? I said, _what are you doing_?" Sirius said smirking, his voice back to normal heights.

"Um, writing a letter to Moony, telling him what happened," James replied, indicating the piece of parchment in front of him.

"Uh, no, you're not…" Sirius said his smirk widening for some reason.

"Uh, yes, I am…"

"No, you were day-dreaming about _Evans,_" Sirius said matter-of-factly.

"No, I was not!" James did not blush. Guys, like him, did not blush. They were cool and nonchalant and James was the incarnation of nonchalant-_ness_.

"Alright mate, if thinking about Moony makes you sigh _that_ way…well, whatever floats your boat…"

Sirius was going _down_.

They ended up in a mess on the floor, limbs flying everywhere, trying to punch, kick, tickle, bite or scratch each other. It was not an easy task, mainly because they were both in hysterics and the lack of oxygen prevented them from putting any real force or thought on what they were doing.

Later yet, after Mrs Potter had threatened to hide their brooms if they didn't stop and had refused to heal any bruises, and James had finally finished his letter to Moony and had sent it with his owl Vindictus(2), they were both lying on their beds tired and somewhat sweaty from their fight. Sirius fell asleep soon enough and his soft snores mingled with the sound of the rain that was beginning to thin, and James thought that after all, summer rain wasn't so bad.

**XxXxXxX**

**(1):** Originally named Twinky, until James decided, at the tender age of five, that 'Twinkle' was _more fun_. Unfortunately, he refused to call her any other name and the poor creature was stuck with 'Twinkle'.

**(2):** James had walked into the store, intending to buy a new owl that would be fast and light. He ended up with Vindictus, despite the fact that he wasn't really light, when the boy next to him left the store with scratches all over his face when he had commented on _the ridiculously round and ugly bird_. Thus, the name: Vindictus. James fell in love with the owl's attitude and bought it on the spot. He loved delivering mail to Snivellus.


	25. Hugo Weasley

**This summer**

_Hugo Weasley_

**by Elledreamer**

2028

Hugo Weasley was alone.

He was standing quite still, in the garden of his home. His childhood home. The house was empty. He could hear the sound of the shutters banging gently against the outside wall, the slight breeze that drifted through the house knocking them ever so slightly. The house itself was tidy and fresh, and more than habitable, but Hugo couldn't face it. He hadn't been able to step foot inside it since it happened.

Rose was gone. Hugo had no idea where, she'd just taken off as soon as she'd found out. Packed a bag and left. She hadn't even said goodbye. She'd just cast him a hurried, guilty glance, her eyes bright with tears before she'd apparated, and Hugo was left alone.

He'd spent the nights wherever he could get a bed. Sometimes at one of his uncle's houses, sometimes at the Leaky Cauldron. Hannah had been kind to him there, but Hugo knew that he couldn't keep running. He had to face it. So here he was.

The day was warm. Bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. New, colourfulflowers scattered the borders of the garden, and a curious bluebird hopped through the tufty grass investigating the ground for worms. An old football lay peeling and brown in the corner, and one of Rose's childhood Muggle bicycles was leant rusting against the garage.

Everywhere Hugo looked bore signs of home. But it wasn't home anymore. Home was for living in, home was for sanctuary. Home was for spending long summers with those you loved.

But this summer was different.

This summer was heat, and uncomfortable. This summer was headaches, and confusion and tears.

This summer was death.

2027

He had one more year left. One more year and he could graduate and finally move on. Out of them all he was one of the last to leave Hogwarts, and it had been inspiring if not infuriating watching his cousins grow up and move on and move out and live their own lives.

Hugo was looking forward to it, but every time he thought of this time next year he'd get a sickening feeling in his gut. Leaving home would be scary, and he hated to admit it to anyone, fearful of their reaction, so he kept quiet. He was afraid that he'd never be able to cope. That he'd crash and burn and then everyone would look at him in shame.

No one really seemed to care though. He still had a year to complete yet, and that was the important thing for right now and people got on with their busy, perfect lives.

This summer was nervousness, and apprehension. This summer was the end of an era, and the start of a promise. A promise to himself.

This summer was change.

2026

His dad said it was a miracle. Uncle George made a fortune at the shop in memorabilia sales, and Hugo was excited. England had reached the final of the Quidditch World Cup.

His Uncle Bill had managed to get tickets, and so Hugo had gone with his dad, all of his uncles (except for Uncle Percy), and his Aunties Ginny and Angelina, as well as James, Lily, Rose, Fred, Roxanne and Dominique.

The lead up to it was nothing like Hugo had experienced before. They'd camped out there for a few days before the match and Hugo and his cousins and sister had spent their time traversing through the long grass in the field watching and meeting all sorts of wizards, and discussing the match with such apprehension and excitement that Hugo barely slept at all the night before.

The final score ended up being England 260 – Bulgaria 240. The battle to catch the Snitch had been epic but when the England Seeker finally swooped upwards with it clenched in her fist, Hugo cheered the loudest he'd ever done in his life. All evening they'd been celebrating, people outside their tents with fireworks and flags. The colours and lights and sound, and the atmosphere were amazing. Hugo stayed up all night and it had been one of the most brilliant times of his life.

The win had been all over the news after, and his dad told Hugo that he was glad that they'd both been able to see England win together, and he only wished that the Chudley Cannons could pull something out of the bag.

This summer was celebration, and fun. This summer was camaraderie and national pride. This summer was parties.

This summer was Quidditch.

2025

It was usually hotter this time of year. People everywhere were moaning about the lack of sun and the frequent thunderstorms, grumbling at how they wouldn't be able to sunbathe, or have fun outside. But Hugo liked it.

Outside, the plants and flowers grew in frenzy, taking over the garden. Rain drops would cling to the branches of trees and glisten in the evening sunlight on the grass. The smell of fresh earth clung to nature every time Hugo went outside, and little frogs would accidently find their way into the kitchen causing Rose to scream something rotten (she'd never gotten over that phobia, not after her third year), and one of them would have to guide it out, gently prodding it with a wand.

But Hugo liked it because it meant that everyone spent more time inside. They'd often go and visit his grandparents' house, and all the family would be there, squashed into the living room, and they'd play games and chat. Grandma Molly would knit and show Victoire and Molly and Lucy how to do it. They'd cook and make things, listen to the radio or just chat. It was those time that Hugo loved the best.

This summer was rain. This summer was stormy skies and the smell of wet hawthorn. This summer was old sofas and the closeness of others.

This summer was family.

2024

His mum had finally caved in, and the next morning they'd arrived. Hugo had nagged herfor months to let his friends come over to stay for a while. Together he'd teamed up with Rose and their mum had finally allowed them to have three friends over each. Hugo could only describe the ending result of the three days as chaos.

He'd already amassed a good collection of stuff from his uncle's shop, and together the eight teenagers had managed to successfully drive Hugo's parents insane and managed to wreck three rooms in the house as well as the shed.

One day, Hugo and his friends escaped the others, and together the four of them headed out on a walk over the fields and climbed the nearby hill. It was a good two hour walk to get up there, and they took a picnic, and spent the good part of a day at the top.

They'd laid out on the bright green grass and stared at the view for a while, watching the white dots of fluffy sheep get rounded up by the black dots of the sheepdog. The surrounding hills and valleys sported an array of different shades of green that fluxed in and out of light as the odd cloud passed over the sun.

After they'd eaten they'd chased each other round for a bit, taking some time to play the Muggle children's games that they hadn't playedfor ages, remembering what it was like to be that age.

It had finished in a complete pile up and the four of them had ended up lying out on the grass, listening to fresh air blow across the hills, watching the clouds and finding their shapes whilst eating the chocolate cake Hugo's grandma had cooked for them all.

This summer was fun, and laughter. This summer was games and memories.

This summer was friends.

2023

It was a lovely little beach. Somewhere along the North East coast of England, not too far from his Muggle grandparents' house. It was one of the first proper family holidays they'd had in ages. His mum had wanted to do it all the Muggle way, and so they'd rented a little cottage for a week, and were spending their time visiting the little villages and towns, and taking walks along the coastline. No magic at all for a week was his mum's rule, and secretly, Hugo enjoyed it.

The sand was wet and packed in to the earth, and it took a good spade to dig it up. Shells and pebbles were scattered along the beach, and Rose was wandering along collecting them in her bucket. Close by, there was a small collection of rocks and pools, and inside little creatures scuttled and pottered about; some with six legs, some with none, and up above seagulls shouted noisily, every so often diving down into the bouncing waves.

The sea itself was cold and murky, but Hugo loved that. He loved the great expanse and the unknowingness of it. Everything was so certain these days; it was nice to have a bit of mystery in the world.

Hugo turned and caught the smell of saltwater and wet fishing nets on the wind. His parents were sat hand in hand on a rug not too far away. Rose was now arranging her stones and shells onto a sandcastle.

Up ahead the sun was bright and welcoming and warm, and it was lovely.

This summer was sand and sea. This summer was exploration, and adventure.

This summer was holiday.

2022

It was the first time he could really appreciate what the summer holidays were. It was strange to be home after being away for so long, and as much as he loved seeing his family again, Hugo missed his friends from school.

There was something about this summer though. Hugo had just finished his first year, and suddenly everything felt new and exciting. He watched his parents perform everyday spells with a new interest, and flicked through his spell books eagerly. School was, of course, school, but it had brought Hugo to realise what a world it was out there.

There were hundreds of witches and wizards, from all sorts of different lives. Some loved magic, some didn't, some loved Muggles, and some didn't. They all knew different things and told different stories. They all had different jobs and lived their lives different ways. Hugo had become so much more aware of the world outside of the bubble of his family, and it was exciting.

He wanted to go out and explore the world, and suddenly it took on a new vigor and shine that made it so much more special than it ever had been. Hugo was more aware of the sights and smells and tastes of everything, of all the people he met every day and didn't give a second thought. There was a world out there.

This summer was new, and exciting. This summer was knowledge and exploration. This summer was people, and the world.

This summer was _life_.


	26. George Weasley

**Sunset**

_A George Weasley Story_

**by mackgirl**

George sat on the top step that went up to his front porch. The sun was setting and George was watching it while he drank a butterbeer. It was his favorite time of the day, watching the sunset because it meant that he had made it through another day. He took a drink from his bottle as he thought back on those first days, the days when he didn't know how he was going to live or what he was suppose to do. It had been then that he started to watch the sunset, finding some comfort in knowing that the day had ended and he had somehow managed to survive it. There were still bad days, George suspected there always would be, but the times when the bad days had outnumbered the good ones had long since pasted. Now only little things would sneak up on him and take George by surprise that made up the bad days.

George took another drink from his bottle as he watched the reds and oranges fill the sky creating a surreal picture. Off in the distance he could hear the shrieks of laughter from children as they tried to cram in one last game of Quidditch before it became to dark to see. Inside he could hear his wife singing along with the WWN as she cleaned the kitchen up for the night. He took another drink of his butterbeer and smiled.

George was startled when he heard footsteps coming from behind him and turned around only to see his oldest son, Freddie, standing nervously on the front porch. George frowned as he wondered what his fifteen-year-old son had managed to do now, most likely with help from his cousin and best friend James Potter.

"Err… I was just wondering if I could join you Dad," Freddie stammered and George nodded as he patted a spot on the step beside him.

Freddie sat down beside George, and opened his own butterbeer that he had brought outside with him. As his son took a drink of it, George could not help but marvel, as he often did, about how much Freddie resembled his namesake.

George sighed as he took another sip from his bottle before asking, "So what did you blow up this time?"

"Nothing Dad, I swear," Freddie exclaimed, "I just wanted to ask if I could go over to Uncle Bill's house tomorrow."

George arched an eyebrow, "Why do you want to go to Bill's place?"

"Err… because he's my favorite Uncle?" Freddie responded before quickly taking another sip.

George laughed, "It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that it's summer and Bill just happens to live between both a Wizarding beach and a Muggle beach would it?"

Freddie grinned and gave his father a wink, "Why do you think Uncle Bill is my favorite Uncle?"

George let out a chuckle, "And here Charlie thinks he's everyone's favorite since he works with those bloody dragons over in Wales."

Freddie laughed as well, "Uncle Charlie just thinks everyone likes him the best. Outside of yours and Uncle Ron's kids, most of the cousins think _you_ or Uncle Ron are their favorite uncles."

George chocked on his butterbeer since he was not expecting Freddie to tell him that, "What?"

"Don't act surprised Dad," Freddie commented before absorbing his father's face, "Hold on Dad, don't tell me that you didn't know that!"

"Who all thinks like that?" George asked.

"Oh lets see, all of them," Freddie teased, "Something about how you two own the greatest joke shop the wizarding world has ever seen."

George just stared at his oldest child as he took another drink of his butterbeer.

"So, can I go to Uncle Bill's tomorrow? Tante Fleur said James and I could stay for a week if it was okay with our parents," Freddie pressed.

This caused George to chuckle again, "If it's okay with your Mum it is fine with me. Just make sure you are able to drag yourself away from that beach one afternoon so you can go to Diagon Alley and get your school things. Hogwarts does start back up again in a couple of weeks. It probably would be the first time in Hogwarts history that a Prefect arrived without their school supplies if you don't."

"Thanks Dad," Freddie stated.

"And, there will be _no_ blowing anything up while you're over there, you understand me?" George added causing Freddie to nod, "How you ever made Prefect I'll never understand."

"It's not like James and I blow things up on purpose. Besides, you _do_ know that Tante Fleur is part Veela right? It makes her quite scary when she gets pissed." Freddie commented, "And Professor Longbottom has already told you why he made me a Prefect so don't start on that one again."

George smiled as he leaned back against the step and returned his attention back to what was left of the sunset. To his surprise, Freddie stayed sitting beside him instead of running off as he had expected him to.

"Dad, can I ask you something?" Freddie asked nervously.

"I can't promise that I'll answer you Freddie, but go ahead and ask." George responded.

Beside him George heard Freddie taking a deep breath before speaking, "I was just wondering why you always sit out here every night, that's all. For as long as I can remember you have always been outside watching the sunset and I was just wondering why."

George sighed as he glanced at his son from the corner of his eye, noting the serious expression on his face. He did not respond, but instead finished off his butterbeer. The two of them remained in silence for sometime before George spoke, not looking at Freddie.

"Are you sure you want to know Freddie? Make sure you really want to hear this Freddie," George spoke softly.

It was silent again for a while before Freddie answered, "I want to know Dad."

Sighing once again, George stared off at the last rays of red and orange, "The Battle of Hogwarts ended in the early hours of the morning; in fact it was just starting to become light outside when it was all over with. I hope you never have to experience that feeling of relief, guilt and grief all at once, but that morning that was exactly how I felt. All at once, the war was over, we didn't have to fight anymore. For a better part of a year, Fred and I along with the majority of the wizarding world had been doing everything they could to just stay alive, to end all the destruction and all the deaths. Lee, you know my friend Lee, anyway Lee had slapped me across the back and we were both standing there grinning and cheering along with everyone else.

"Then it was like a buldger had hit me in the gut because Fred wasn't there. He was off to one side of the Great Hall, lying among the others who had died that night. I had lost my brother and best friend all in one stroke. Lee told me later that I just fell to my knees, I don't remember that, but I do remember Oliver and Lee helping me up to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Lee found a bottle of Never Ending Firewhiskey and we just sat there, the three of us, getting drunk. I don't remember much about that day Freddie, all I remember was I didn't sleep and that Lee and Oliver sat with me the entire time. Apparently I wouldn't let any of the family come near me, I would just freak out if anyone got to close, and so Lee and Oliver just wouldn't let any of them insight of me."

George paused then as he struggled to keep his tears in check, "Is that why Granny doesn't like Lee Jordan and Oliver Wood very much? She's always turning the WWN off when Lee comes on air and one day she just about pounced on Louis when she heard him say that Oliver Wood was one of the best players Puddlemere ever had."

"Oh Mum likes the two of them just fine. She just thinks that Lee's program is a little vulgar at times, or most of the time. As for her getting after Louis for bringing up Oliver, it's only when she's really thinking about that time that she doesn't want to hear about Lee or Oliver because all the anger she was feeling then returns. Just between us though, Mum has sent the two of them a Weasley jumper every year since that last battle," George commented, "Anyway, so we spent the entire day getting drunk. The only other thing I remember about that day was the Common Room started to fill up with these red and orange colors that were coming from the window. I remember standing up and stumbling towards one of the windows and looking out to see the sun setting. Lee and Oliver must have followed me because they each placed a hand on my shoulders and I remember Oliver saying, 'That's one day you got yourself through mate.'

"That night I went back to the Burrow and locked myself in Charlie's bedroom. I couldn't bring myself to go to the bedroom that Fred and I had shared for most of our lives and Charlie's room was the only one that was empty at the time since he had stayed behind at Hogwarts to help get those who hadn't survived back to their relatives. I stayed locked in that bedroom all night and all of the next of the day, well I won't get into any of the details but it wasn't pretty.

"At sunset I was sitting at Charlie's window staring at the bright colors when Charlie was finally able to break his bedroom door down. He didn't say anything at first, just crossed his bedroom and sat down beside me. 'Just take it one day at a time George, that's all you can do,' Charlie told me as we watched the sunset.

"Everyday was hard, harder then you will ever know Freddie and I pray you will never have to know first hand how hard it was. Some how I managed to get through the days, with a lot of help from the family and Lee and Oliver, and I started to look forward to seeing the sunset because that symbolized another day that I had survived without Fred."

There were tears now escaping George's eyes, but he ignored them. He chanced a glimpse at Freddie only to find him staring blankly up at the sky. "I guess I never really thought about how hard it was for you Dad, losing Uncle Fred and all. He's always just seemed like some… what does Aunt Hermione call them… Oh! He's always just seemed like some superhero from our bedtime stories. Uncle Fred was just someone who chased the monsters from our closets and protected us when we had to do something that we were scared to do. It was like I know Uncle Fred was a real person, but sometimes he seemed about as real as Aunt Hermione's Santa Clause."

George sat on that step, the summer breeze blowing around him absorbing what Freddie had said. He always knew that would be how all the kids would think about Fred. How could they not when ever since they were little George and his siblings would tell them that there was nothing to be scared of at night because Uncle Fred had chased away the bad guys or that the kids had nothing to be scared about because Uncle Fred was always with them, especially when they really needed someone there.

"I'm sorry Dad, I didn't mean for that to sound as bad as it did," Freddie apologized, most likely because of the silence coming from George.

"There's no need to apologize Freddie. It was hard, it still is. Just know that right after the Battle I didn't have any good days. Then slowly a good day would appear until they started to out number the bad ones. It has been a very long time since I have had any day that was like those first few days without Fred," George stated firmly, "And I always suspected that was how you and the others would feel about Fred. I accepted that not long after Victoire was born."

Father and son sat in silence again, the darkness engulfing them as they sat on the front porch.

"Dad, you didn't really tell us stories though, at least not make believe stories. If you think about it, Uncle Fred really _did_ chase all the monsters away for Victoire, James, myself… all of us actually. However, he wasn't the only one. You did too, so did all the rest of the family," Freddie softly stated.

George had to control his emotions as he spoke, "And Fred is with you whenever you need him. I've always known that Freddie, just like I know Bill or Ginny or anyone else is there for you guys."

"What was it like Dad, losing Uncle Fred?" Freddie inquired.

"Remember when James caught that bad case of Dragon Pox a couple of years ago and no one was sure if he would survive or not?" George whispered causing Freddie to nod, "Imagine how you felt then, but times it by a hundred."

George heard Freddie curse under his breath but neither one said anything. They sat together lost in their own thoughts and George wasn't sure how much time had past before Freddie stood up.

"Thanks for telling me Dad, it means a lot to me," Freddie said, "You think when I get back from Uncle Bill's house next week I can watch the sunset with you?"

George looked up at his son and nodded, "Anytime you want to join me out here Freddie you are more then welcome to."

Freddie nodded, "Well, goodnight then Dad."

"Goodnight Freddie," George stated as he watched his son walk across the front porch to the door. He paused when he reached the door just as George turned his attention back to the night skies.

"I'm really glad you made it through another day Dad," Freddie commented before opening the door and walking into the house.

Raising a hand and wiping at his eyes, George murmured, "Me too Freddie. Me too."


	27. Fred Weasley

**I Remember You and Me**

_Fred Weasley_

**by Written Sparks**

Heaven was wonderful. It was peaceful and calm. And Fred almost felt like he didn't belong. He didn't want to seem ungrateful, after all the naughty things he had done while he was alive he was a little surprised he even ended up in heaven.

Heaven, the after-life, another place, the end, the beginning; he had heard it called many different things. It didn't matter to Fred what it was called, all he knew was that she wasn't with him. And other than his family, Fred missed her the most.

And it was almost summer, back on earth anyway. Nothing ever changed in heaven, everything was always perfect. But the earth continued to turn and the seasons continued to change. And Fred found himself dreading the return of summer. Because summer reminded him of her. His memories of summer were tied to his memories of her.

He remembered how her normally pale skin would turn such a beautiful honey color in the sun. How she would recline against him, her face turned towards the sun. He remembered the time they went down to the beach one summer and spent every day splashing through the waves, covered in sand, and happier than ever.

Fred couldn't decide if being able to watch the earth made things easier or harder. He was glad to see that his family was slowly returning to their normal lives. He was happy that they were together, that they had each other. But she had no one; and he knew that she hated summer as much as he did. Summer was their time and it was pointless without each other.

Fred tried to remember her the way she used to be. He realized that all of his big, important memories of her involved summer. He was pretty sure that he had even modified some of his memories. Memories that might have actually taken place in the chill of winter or the thaw of spring now boasted a background of sun and sand and heat. She was summer, nothing else made sense to him. She belonged in the summer. But now she shied away from the heat, she turned her face away from the sun.

Fred remembered her heat beating against his. He remembered the taste of her lips; a taste that ironically reminded him of summer. He remembered how she moved fluidly like water, how her hair looked in the wind, how her hand felt in his.

He knew that if he ever slept in heaven he would dream of her. Her simple beauty was always on his mind. Her laugh was always in his ears. Her love was a tattoo on his heart. And he knew that he would never make memories with her again. Seeing her but not being with her was enough to drive him wild, but it was all her had. All he could do now was watch her and try not to hate summer.

* * *

_A/N I was slightly inspired by the beautiful song "Still" by Matt Nathanson_.


	28. Michael Corner

**Into the Light of Day **

_Michael Corner_

**by WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot**

_A/N: Thanks so much to Sara Winters for looking over this story for me. Rated T for Terry's dirty mouth._

The sun streamed through the large windows, which were just barely open to allow fresh air into the room. It was St. Mungo's policy, after all, to make their patients as comfortable as possible, and the smells of such cloying tonics and balms could lead one to suffocation.

Neither the light nor the air could brighten Michael Corner's surly mood. Turned onto his uninjured left side, he faced away from the door. On the wall above him, the clock ticked as each second passed. The hourglass on the table next to his bed drained ever so slowly, from top to bottom.

He breathed in and out.

_Anytime now…._

His eyes shifted from hourglass to the door as he heard the ticks of the clock measuring the waning hour.

_Anytime_.

The stream of sand hit the bottom chamber of the hourglass.

_Anyt—_

There was a loud _bang _on the door and two wizards, one moving calmly, the other making as much noise as he possibly could, burst into the room.

"_CORNER!_ YOU INSUFFERABLE PRAT!"

He groaned at the sound of Terry Boot's booming voice. Behind him, Anthony Goldstein shook his head. Michael said nothing, instead turning around in his bed and pushing the pillows into his face. Partly to shield himself from the inevitable Boot onslaught once he approached, but mostly because the side he now laid upon was still in the recovery stages, and it hurt a great deal.

He winced, hissing as he felt the pain from underneath his wrappings and his cast.

"Oh no, you sod!" Terry bounded around the bed and crouched down, so that his face was level with Michael's. He wagged his finger in front of his friend's still-recovering face. "We're not letting you do this to yourself."

"Leave me alone!" He hoped the message came across, as muffled as it was in his pillow. There was a dip in his mattress, and Michael knew that Anthony had just plopped down next to him.

"Mate, look. I'm only going to say this one time. Right now, Terry is really bloody close to dumping you out of this bed and Levitating you out of this window."

Michael again groaned at his other friend. "You wouldn't dare! I'm still injured." He lifted up what was left of his right arm, but only a centimetre or two, as it made him hurt to raise it even now. "My leg's ruined, the whole right side of my body looks like a dragon's chew toy, and I-I… " He swallowed, feeling a lump stuck in his throat. "I can't even look at my right arm… or where my right arm used to be."

He saw Anthony look over at Terry with an inscrutable expression. What they were plotting, Michael couldn't guess.

"Do you realize that you haven't been outside for a bleedin' month?" Terry spoke now, but Michael didn't look at him. "Man, you made it. You survived that sodding war, and yet there are corpses that have more fun than you."

"Hey!" "Terry!" Michael and Anthony looked at each other as they made their simultaneous exclamations.

Terry pushed off the bed. "I'm not gonna sugarcoat this funk for you, mate!" He bent down and picked up the brace that Michael's Healers had given to him. "Now, be a good man and put this on."

He glared at Terry. "What if I say 'no'?"

"Do you really think I won't make good on that threat to Levitate you right out of that big window?" Terry placed the brace on the bed. He spoke in a softer, more pleading tone. "Come on, Mike. It's not healthy being in here all the time. It's summer! It's June already."

He pounded his pillow. "No."

Terry looked up at Anthony, his eyes dark. He stared back down at Michael. "I take it that the Death Eaters took your bollocks too then, eh?"

Michael shot a fiery expression at Terry. He hated that Terry could be so damn insensitive sometimes. Insensitive, rude, loud, obnoxious… and yet, as honest as a mirror.

"Mike, Terry's got a point, as crude as he's making it. We can't just watch you fade away up here."

Anthony normally mediated Terry's exchanges, except for those times that Tony agreed whole-heartedly with Terry's position, although those times were rare. Very rare. Apparently, this was going to be a two-on-one battle, and Michael was too weary to fight with them anymore.

Snorting, Michael used his left arm to push down on his mattress and he scooted himself up gingerly. His right side stung, and he winced and moaned as his body protested to the movement. Having squeezed his eyes shut, he could hear Anthony let out a sigh, indicating that he was worried.

The thought flitted through his head to make an even bigger show of his pain, to make his two friends feel guilty that they were forcing him to do something he was so staunchly opposed to. But Michael opened his eyes instead. He saw Terry's grinning face and Anthony's rueful smile.

"All right. I'm up." He settled against the back of the bed and plastered a sneer on his face, trying to hide the fact that a grin was threatening to peek out on his mouth. No, he was determined to remain sullen and pout. He was not going to let his friends do this crap with him, telling him to stop moping when that was all he wanted to do.

Terry clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. "Well, first thing's first, right?" Reaching down, he picked up the halved brace and held them up in front of him. "You've gotta have these to walk, right? So let's get it on you."

********

"See, you prat?" Terry ran out ahead of them. He threw his arms out and spun around as Anthony stayed by Michael's side. "D'ya see what you've been missing?" He clasped his hands together and made a sickly sweet sound as he watched his two best mates walk. "Oh, don't you two make the prettiest little pairing!"

Anthony glared and flashed him the two-finger salute.

"Shut it, you wanker!" Michael very nearly threw his cane at his mate. Looking around, Michael sighed. It was an unbearably pretty day; the sky had finally cleared up after a week's worth of rain. It was perfectly blue. Tufts of white clouds hung above their heads. Even with their grey underbellies, the slightest threat to mar the otherwise beautiful day with a potential downpour.

Michael closed his eyes. He could smell the grass, sweet from the infusion of rain. There was a cart nearby and the smell of roasted nuts, candied and golden brown, wafted into his nose, making his jaw twitch and mouth water. And there was the sound of laughing, of kids playing somewhere. Different from the wails of the sick and hurt at St. Mungo's. Different from the orders of his Healers telling him how to move to dress his sides or how to use his leg—

"_Oi_!"

A sharp, but playful smack jolted him out of his reverie. Michael opened his eyes and glared at Terry. Boot gestured to a square blanket he had laid out on the grass. "After you."

Grunting and trying to prevent a smile from popping out on his face, Michael made his way over to the blanket, his cane moving first, his injured, braced leg pulling in from the rear. When Anthony made a move as if to assist him, Michael hissed sharply, holding his hand up to stop him from going further.

"Don't."

The tone of his voice made his friends freeze where they stood. With a deep breath and another puff anticipating a certain level of discomfort, Michael manoeuvred his body to the ground. His leg was caught under his body at an odd angle; he let out a whimper as it caught him off guard.

"Michael—" His hand flew up again, warning Anthony to back off. But Terry already had his arm around the other boy's shoulders, keeping him from moving toward Michael.

"I got this, Tony." Michael sucked in his breath as he slowly moved his leg out from under his body. He didn't breathe in again until his bum leg was free from painful obstruction. "Oh-okay," he said, licking his lips and beckoning Terry and Anthony to join him. "I'm fine. Just… it sort of takes a while to see which directions my limbs decide to go."

Terry and Anthony plopped down next to him, the former slapping Michael on his shoulder, causing Michael to wince. Apparently, injuries or no injuries, Terry Boot wasn't about to handle him any differently. The three wizards said nothing for several moments, but sat on the blanket, staring up towards the heavens.

Michael felt that same sense of relief pass over him, the contentment that had started to take hold as soon as they got to the park. He remembered the peaceful feeling that had enveloped his body as he soaked in the sounds and smells of the streets. "It is good to be out here."

Terry smiled, blinking as he looked upwards. "We can't have you missing any more of this summer, mate."

"This is what we fought for, Mike." Anthony's voice was barely a whisper. "Why the hell would you stay away from all of this? Why would you deny this to yourself?"

Michael loathed the fact that he had another lump in his throat. Twice in a day! Bloody hell, he never cried! Not about anything. The last time this happened, he was on the verge of that final battle. Walking with these two blokes towards certain death.

"I'm… all different now." He choked on his words. "Parts of me are missing — _literally_. My leg's all bollocksed up. It's just…" Michael couldn't finish his thought. His head fell, drooping onto his chest. He could feel his chin, the weight resting so near to his heart. Worse still, he could sense his two friends behind him, sharing awkward glances between each other. They hated it when he brought up his maimed body; their discomfort was in their pauses and the tremors of their breaths. It made them nervous because they simply did not know how to react.

Michael felt a jab to his left shoulder. "Well, at least it wasn't your wanking hand."

Slowly, Michael lifted his head up and turned around as much as he could to see Terry, his face rumpled as he looked at his friend, partially from disgust, partially from disbelief that he would say that. Terry, however, was grinning at Michael. Anthony, too, was staring at Terry with exasperation.

Before something cutting, something rude could escape Michael's lips, a chuckle rose from his stomach, and it burst through his mouth and nose like a small explosion. The chuckle snowballed into a giggle, and it escalated to something louder and more joyous.

He was laughing. And his laughter filled the air around them as Anthony and Terry joined him.

"Oh… b-bloody hell, mate!" Michael wiped his eyes with his left hand and slapped Terry on his knee. "And, for your information—" He wiggled his right arm at his friend. "It was. I _was_ right-handed, you prat!"

Anthony guffawed. "H-honestly," he stammered as he slowly regained his composure, "it's just one thing you can train your other hand to work on." He ticked off on each finger. "Writing… wand work… _wanking_…"

"Two of those things mean the same thing!" Michael interjected. They fell into more peals of laughter.

Michael let the sound, the feeling of ebullient joy wash over his wrecked body. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed this much. It was honest, real laughter, and it felt damn good.

Taking a breath, he closed his eyes and lowered his body down, reclining fully in the sun.

"That felt good. That felt _really_ good."

Terry sighed. "To you mate." Michael laughed and felt relaxed. He let the weight of the war, and his recovery, fall away with each peal.

"Yeah," Anthony added. "All for you, Mike."

They lapsed into a relaxing quiet, watching the clouds move slowly across the sky. Michael felt the constant tug at the corners of his mouth. He followed through with the urge, his lips easing into a smile.

"Cheers, Mike." "You'd better enjoy this." Anthony and Terry spoke practically at the same time.

He could only grin upwards at the sky. "Don't worry. I will."


	29. Ariana Dumbledore

**Life Has a Way of Making Change  
**

_Ariana Dumbledore  
_

**by StoryGirl02**

Summer means sweet smells, flowers releasing their essence, before wilting, falling to the ground in a series of brown petals.

_Dead._

Sweet smells, like her mother's perfume, imported straight from France, encased in only the finest glass, topped off with a solid gold cap. The last bottle is almost empty now, but a few drops still linger around the bottom, desperately trying to fill the dozens of empty spaces in the bottle.

Her mother does not wear that perfume anymore. It sits on her shelf, accompanied by a pair of dusty bronze picture frames, and isn't touched, just left alone, for the dust and wind to destroy gradually, over the course of time.

Still, Ariana swears, and Al looks at her likes she's crazy, when she lies in her brother's strong embrace, tears flowing down her face, somehow, someway, she can still smell a wisp of the perfume.

It blows around her when her mother collapses.

And she cries, horrible sobs escaping her throat as she crawls over to her mother's body, and buries her nose into her neck, hiccupping loudly.

_Her fault._

And the flowers die.

* * *

Summer means holidays.

Like the end of term, when Al and Abe are home again, free to do whatever they want, whenever they want. Free to sit with her, and stroke her hair only the way the two best bigger brothers in the world can. She loves those days, when they sit, all three outside together, her with her sketch-pad, little teeth gnawing down on the stump of charcoal, Al with his open book, eyes intensely scanning the pages, and Abe folding paper airplanes out of scraps of paper.

On a day, like those, the sun beating down on them, Ariana giggles with glee as she watches a paper airplane soar, softly, _oh so softly_, and land with a soft crash, in Al's long, straight mass of auburn hair; that flops over his face whenever he reads and covers his eyes from view.

He looks up from his book, grinning at Abe. Slowly, so very slowly, her brothers creep forward, identical blue eyes gleaming and twinkling at her, until Abe's strong arms land around her and lift her into the air.

_And she is soaring, the way only birds can. _

She screams happily, pumping her legs in the air, squealing as Al's long fingers tickle her stomach, her mouth flapping open and shut, nothing of understanding escaping the confines.

Ariana loves holidays.

* * *

Summer means guests.

One night, when she is already dressed in her blue nightgown, hair already brushed and cloaking her face, the doorbell rings. Al jumps up from his spot on the couch, wand poised in hand, although it shakes nervously. Abe jumps up as well, hand resting over his pocket, where she knows his wand lays.

Al gestures him back, and he comes to stand behind her, hands on her shoulders, kneading the flesh delicately. Bit by bit, Al pulls the door open_. Silence._ Her breathing is loud in the hushed room, and she tries to jerk her head around Abe's grasp to try and capture a glimpse of what is going on. He pulls her back, but lets his hands rest by his side, instead of on her, cracking his knuckles in the silent room.

Al laughs with gladness, and the door bangs shut, the wind howling through the thin cracks. She squeezes her blue eyes shut, before Abe chuckles, and pries them open, forcing her to see the world.

There is a man, taller than Al, with blond hair to his ears, the hair shaped in small tuffs around them, and sparkling brown eyes which look straight into her soul. He beams down at her, and crouches to her level.

"Hello," he begins, taking one of her hands within his.

"Hello," she repeats back, smiling softly down at him, retracting her hand, fumbling with it in her lap.

"You are Ariana, are you not?" he asks, still looking curiously up at her. She nods, too quickly, blushing softly; a red flush appears across her cheeks. "I have heard of you," he murmurs, lowering his heated gaze to stare at the floor, tuffs of red carpet falling out, plucked by his steady hand.

"Ri, this is Gellert Grindelwald. He lives down the road, with Bathilda. You know, the one who smiles whenever she sees you?" Al looks down at her behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes looking concernedly into hers, unblinking, a constant smile on her face. "You know?" he asked, softly, his voice almost a whisper.

Abe scoffs. "Don't talk to her like she's retarded, Albus!" he snaps, placing his protective hands on her shoulders again, twirling blonde locks around his fingers. "Just because you're the oldest, it doesn't meant you know what's best for her."

Ariana turns to face her brother, pulling his hands away. "What's best for me?" she questions softly, a stump of charcoal rolling around in her fingers, turning the pale skin black.

"Nothing." Her attention is switched back to Al when he murmurs this, lowering his gaze to the floor. Gellert, beside him, straightens up, smoothing down his robes as he clears his throat loudly in the silent room.

"Shall we go into the kitchen?" Al asks, gesturing his hands towards Abe. He shakes his head disapprovingly, but Al doesn't acknowledge it, and walks towards the brightly-lit kitchen, Gellert behind him, long black cloak trailing on the floor.

She stares up at Abe curiously, eyes blinking slowly.

"Time for bed, I think," he tells her, and lifts her up into his arms, her long golden hair falling over his face. She squeals with delight, dropping the stump of charcoal from her tight grasp.

It lands, with a soft thump, on the floor. It is never used again.

* * *

Summer means guests.

But none have been quite as havoc-wreaking as Gellert Grindelwald was.

Summer means hot days, spent under the shade of the one, large oak tree that casts a black shadow over the yard. Gellert visits them almost every day, and becomes almost like a brother to her, giving her piggy-backs around the yard, tickling her nose with the end of pink feather, "plucked from the back of his owl," he says, and is always a willing participant in her games, when Al and Abe refuse to join in, pleading exhaustion.

She hums softly, a stump of charcoal grasped inside her hand. Giggling softly as Gellert lifts her into the air, she captures Al's eyes, her brother's nose safely inside a book, where no harm can come to him. _She doesn't want him to leave, no, never._

He smiles back at her, glasses perched on his nose. Abe scowls by his side, quill scurrying furiously over his parchment, biting his lower lip softly, his mind trapped in thought.

Gellert starts to sing softly, his voice filling the silence. _"_Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right. Little _darling,_ it's been a long cold lonely winter," he murmurs, his voice rising as he twirls her around in his strong arms, loosening her hair from its clip. Abe snorts at the irony of it, shaking his head humourlessly. Gellert smiles up at her, and she beams back. Al grins in the distance, and even Abe seems to force a tight-lipped smile at her as Gellert twirls her around the garden, singing nonsense to her softly all the while.

Summer means happiness. And she will never ever, for the life of her, give the happiness up. Her whole life is an endless cycle of summertime. Ariana Dumbledore will live forever in the sun.

Long fingers start to tickle her stomach and she twists and turns on the green grass in a state of bliss, bubbles of laughter erupting from her throat.

* * *


	30. Andromeda Black

**Hidden Away**

_Andromeda Black_

**By xoxcrescentmoonxox**

Princess Andromeda is locked within a bitter, Black tower. Each June she's spirited away from Hogwarts to return to the cold manor; each June she comes home with Bella's heated denunciations and later with Cissy's far flung fancies that penetrate the barrier she's built between them during the school months. Her mother's voice rings loud and angry all day, and she feels trapped inside the walls of their London house.

Her last summer at home, just after sixth year, is the worst. She's been able to spend the school year avoiding her sisters with her newly increased Prefect duties; been able to avoid them with Ted Tonks as they creep down hallways into secluded corners, falling into each other's arms only when they're sure they're alone, and then staying like that for hours on end. But now she's stuck here, alone in her canopied bed and demoted to rereading the book of Muggle fairy-tales that Uncle Alphie gave her years ago which she's always stashed under her mattress. It's Rapunzel that she reads about the most; silly Rapunzel with her golden plaits, who sits on a window-seat and cries for a prince to rescue her. Silly Rapunzel who, for all that she's pathetic, gets her prince; gets her escape — and if someone like that can come out happily ever after, why not Andromeda?

So like silly Rapunzel, Andromeda also spends hours gazing out her window at the enchanted grounds, the ones that Druella has charmed to make the house's exterior more visually appealing from the inside. Shrubs clipped to shapes of animals — unicorns, dragons, and one manticore — adorn the outskirts of an elaborate hedge maze. Sometimes Andromeda feels like she's running through that very maze, starting from the center and always turning in circles, unable to find a way out. She makes a game out of it and plays her way through — for each day closer to Hogwarts she imagines herself around one more curve; one step closer to escape.

Every few days Bellatrix joins her in her room, in turns lecturing about blood purity and shrieking that Andromeda is an ungrateful wench who should never have been born Black; she'll never live up to the name. _But why?_ Andromeda replies scathingly, _Would I want to?_ At that Bellatrix spins on her heel and stalks down the hall, leaving Andromeda worried and angry in her room, telling herself that it doesn't matter how similar to Bellatrix she looks. That it doesn't matter how their voices rise to the same pitch when they scream at each other, because their morals are completely different. That a trapped Princess is always better than her wicked Sister.

It's harder when Narcissa comes, though, in all her pristine twelve year old innocence. Harder because Narcissa doesn't understand their family's twisted ideals and has never had the chance to identify herself with one way of thought or another. Harder, because Andromeda knows that once she's gone, there will be nothing to stop Cissy from becoming a little blonde Bellatrix. So she smiles when her sister dances around the room, upsetting knick knacks and chattering about going back to school and her friends and Aunt Walburga's upcoming party. Smiles, and tries to forget what she'll be abandoning.

But those long months at last come to an end, and one day Princess Andromeda leans out the window and gazes around the gardens a final time. She enjoys it without guilt, because this is the last time she will be here; the last time she can lean back against the wall and look out; the last time she can imagine running through the curves of the hedge maze. She's interrupted when Druella calls for her to come downstairs, and again the house elf slips in to take her trunk. Then, alone once more, Andromeda kneels on the window seat and tracks the lines of the maze around the final corners, rejoicing as she bursts out into the rest of the gardens. And at last she slams the widow shut, locking it tightly and drawing the shutters closed, then latching the hook and eye as well. Years from now another child might come; one of Cissy's, perhaps, and throw the window open again to gaze over those very grounds, imagining just as she has done. But now her mother is shrieking to her that they'll be late, and the room is barren of Andromeda's life, and there's nothing more to do here — so she clatters downstairs and doesn't look back.

-

Princess Andromeda escapes the bitter, Black tower. It's a bright June morning soon after graduation and she and Ted are hand in hand, standing on a green lawn with yellow sun beaming down on her white dress and his blue robes. A Juriwitch stands in front of them, stumbling over the Muggle ceremony Ted and his parents wanted read — but the final lines are familiar to both worlds.

_Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?_

_I do._

_Then you may kiss the bride._

Andromeda Tonks will never have to return to her dark room; never have to look across the shaded grounds again, wishing to be anywhere else. She will never have to laugh at silly Rapunzel, secretly envying her perfect ending, because Andromeda's own is better than any fairy tale.

Andromeda Tonks kisses Ted in the midst of this explosion of summer colors. She kisses him, and she doesn't look back.


	31. Susan Bones

**A Time of Hope**

_Susan Bones_

**By Cuban Sombrero Gal**

Summer is a time of sadness.

Susan's aunt dies that first summer after the war begins, becoming one of the first casualties, one of the first statistics. She becomes one of the first fallen Order of the Phoenix members (not that Susan is supposed to know about that), one of the first bodies sprawled across the floor; her death becomes one of the first Muggle mysteries. Amelia Bones becomes another body, another name, another person to grieve for when there's only so much sorrow they can all hold.

Her family cracks under the pressure, finally wearing the scars of a war that ruined them too long ago. The house reeks of silence and tears; Susan's mother wails and no-one can bear to tell her: crying won't bring your sister back. Amelia is just another one in a line of fallen siblings, shattered, broken. _Dead._ The word has connotations for Susan that it shouldn't have, starched black dress, pretty white flowers, another day, another funeral procession.

It rains at Aunt Amelia's funeral, and Susan finds that rather fitting. The clouds paint the sky in black and white, the fragile rays of sunlight caught behind their blanket. Susan finds that fitting because, without Aunt Amelia, summer isn't really summer anymore. Slowly, the sky, like her heart, has grown darker; outside; an unseasonable chill sweeps over England while she huddles in the shadows and cries.

--

She goes back to Hogwarts anyway. There's nothing for her at home now, like summer, the happiness that once burned so bright in the Bones' house has faded. It's gone. _Forever. _The word still tastes funny in her mouth, a promise that burns like red-hot fire until it's extinguished by the winter rain.

It takes Terry five seconds to figure out that something's wrong. The sadness rolls out of her throat in waves and she collapses against him as she starts to cry. It shames her – Amelia Bones fought 'til the end and Susan Bones should too. But she can't.

She says as much to Terry and he sighs.

"You're being ridiculous."

"No, I'm not."

"Look, Susan," he says. "We're all going to fight. You should join us, you should fight. Fight for Aunt Amelia."  
Susan smiles slightly, despite herself. He doesn't understand, and she doesn't want him too – he and Anthony and Michael are so sheltered; they know so little loss and it's a sad sort of smile because she both envies and hates their naivety. Sometimes, she wishes she could be like that. Sometimes she wishes it was less about forgetting and more about having nothing to remember in the first place.

"I want to," she says, even though she doesn't, not really. She's a Hufflepuff and yes, that makes her loyal, but it doesn't make her brave. She doesn't want to be brave. Bravery killed Cedric Diggory, what feels now like so many summers ago. Worse, bravery killed her family.

"But the DA," she says finally. "It's probably not going to start again, not now that Umbridge is gone." It's a weak excuse, and she knows it. Terry knows it. It's a mark of how much he loves her that he doesn't comment; instead, he just squeezes her hand gently and kisses her on the cheek. For a moment, she falters under his gaze, forgets that there's a war and that somewhere outside these four walls, people are floundering, suffering, dying. For a single second in time, Susan forgets that her family has suffered so much, that so many of them have died.

"We don't have to join the DA again," Terry says. "We can just start with small things, you know, like defending Harry Potter's name." There's a slight twist of his lips as he says it, and Susan understands straight away – as much as Terry respects Harry Potter, he hates that the Chosen One gets all the fame.

She loves that about him – his ability to sacrifice himself for the greater good, the way he tries so hard, cares so much, devotes every little part of himself to her, and to his friends. And in that moment, she realises it – it's love that will win the war for them. Love for their homes, for their schools, for their friends, for their family. Love for the heroes, but also love for the fallen. Love for Amelia.

Summer is a time of sadness, but maybe autumn will be a time of hope.


	32. Merope Gaunt

**I, Who Have Nothing**

_Merope Gaunt_

**By StoryGirl02**

He always rides by in the summer, when she is able to stick her head out of the window and smell the sweet fragrances from the flowering weeds growing by their house. He rides so elegantly, so richly, that she cannot bear to tear her eyes away, and watches him, eyes locked onto his frame, until he rounds the corner, and disappears from her sight.

Morfin teases her so horrible one night, his face twisted up into an expression of wicked glee, that she forgets to watch him the next morning. When she finally wakes up, bruises decorating her skin, and her hair mated to her face with dirt, she runs to the window, too-short nightgown flapping around her knees. He isn't there. Morfin cackles from his armchair, running a tender hand down the snake in his arm. A new ornament for the front door, no doubt.

_She's missed him. _

A tear rolls down her cheek unexpectedly, and she wipes it away, scowling down at the dirt she removes. Her father barks an order at her, and she jumps, startled, dropping the dirty, tattered dish rag on the floor. Bobbing her head at him, she picks it up, scurrying over to the sink, water coursing through the old pipes, burning her hands.

She winces, but shows no emotion.

Her father's eyes are on her now, and that prevents her from looking out the window at eleven-thirty the next day. If he finds out, she'll end up just like the snakes Morfin is so fond of capturing.

_Dead. _

_Her father's voice echoes in her head, taunting her: "Gaunts are better than that." _

One day, when the sun is high in the clearless sky, and the voices of happy playing children drift over to their house, she summons the courage to venture out of house, eyes blinded by the intense sun. She smooths down her stained dress, and attempts to clear her face as best she can with the already-dirty water dripping into the red bucket, making its way out, slowly dripping through the cracks and holes.

She doesn't know why she does this, but she knows that she has to see him.

_He is so perfect,_ she thinks, walking into town, the dirt road tough under her feet. His hair is almost an unnatural shade of brown, almost black, but not quite so. It provides the perfect background for his sparkling blue eyes, as blue as the sky above. _And, his mouth…. _She flushes red at the thought, dipping her head to stare at her uncovered toes, wiggling them in the hot dirt.

She has never seen a human so perfect before.

Her father despises the inhabitants of town, spitting at the ground whenever there is mention of them. Filthy Muggles, he remarks, claiming that their family are better than all of them. She has only started to question his remarks, and only started to think; that if they are so better, if they are superiour than them, why are they like this? Why do they have no money, no house, and are forced to live in poverty? If they are so better, why do all the Muggles she comes across look down at her in disdain, glaring at her.

The _'tramp's daughter' _is what she is called. People exchange warning glances whenever she comes near them. Merope shakes her head softly at the thought, her feet carrying her ever closer to town.

He'll never love her while her father and brother are around. Tom Riddle would never lay eyes on her, all lanky form, and a dirty-face, with rings around her eyes, and signs of infection spotting her face, when he has a perfect girl standing right in front of him.

"_Cecilia,"_ she mutters, spitting the name out with disdain. A perfect name, for a perfect girl. Her blonde ringlets hang past her shoulders, and her brown eyes flutter happily up at Tom, her body swaying in such a way Merope is certain she will never be able to master.

She is the sort of girl he wants.

Merope glances up at the sound of horses, her eyes wide as she watches the black carriage approaches, travelling noisily on the road. A boy sticks his head out, and there is no doubt in her mind that this is her boy, this is Tom.

Eyes wide, she glances around for any sort of shelter.

The carriage comes ever closer, the horses galloping on the road. Merope sighs, rubbing her face tiredly. She plays with the fraying threads of her dress, heat thumping in tandem to the horse's hooves.

The carriage passes her with a sharp whoosh of air, and she lets out a breath she didn't know she had been holding in. She looks up, and meets his eyes.

He is pulled inside the carriage by his father, the man barking at him. Then he is gone, travelling down the road hurriedly.

Things, thoughts come inside her head in a jumble, so fast she is not expecting them. While her father teases her about her spell work, claiming she is a Squib, there is a side of her he has never seen and never will. Late at night, she steals books from his meagre library, and reads, squinting by the light of the candle. And she learns, oh, yes, she learns, about the wonderful uses of magic. Merope Gaunt is a witch.

And as for Potions, a subject her father regards as useless, as he has never been able to master it, well, she is a dab hand at it.

She closes her eyes softly, breathing deep; her walk paused for the moment. It wasn't fair to do that to Tom, but if it helped him realise that she was the one for him? Her hands fidget excitedly, her body squirming on the hot sand.

Her mind made up, she walks faster into town, lank brown hair gathered into a mess at the base of her neck.

She will be a wonderful summer bride.

She pants hurriedly, her face white, no signs of sweating appearing on her forehead. Her hair falls over her opened eyes, taking in the cramped room. A woman crouches at the end of the bed, inspecting her- she flushes red- private area.

A horde of tears slips out of her now-closed eyes as she is instructed to push. How could Tom just leave her? A wail escapes her open mouth. She had been the one to take the risk; she had stopped giving him his potion. But through it all, when she stumbled over to the window and poured the liquid out, she never thought that he would leave her. After all, she had been pregnant, with his child.

She remembered the incident as clear as day.

_Tom, screaming, fists raised, her Tom, slapping her across the face. _

Merope winces, pushing once more. _Tom, Tom, Tom_, her mind chants in rhythm to her frantic heartbeats.

He had left her, huddled up into a ball, blood seeping from her mouth, and a hand on her enlarged stomach._ Not mine, _he had taunted, glancing at her, before the door slammed shut.

How could he question the paternity, when he was the only one she had been with?

_Love you, love you, love you. Only one for me. Beautiful. A smile. Gorgeous. _

_Always be here._

_**Liar!**_

Her eyes flutter open.

And a wail fills the room; the woman beams triumphantly, a bundle of red in her freckled arms. _Mine_, she wants to scream, to snatch him and leave, just her and him. _Merope and Tom. _Together forever.

But she can't. Struggling, heaving heavily, she fumbles down the end of the bed, eyes wide as she brings back blood-stained fingers.

She is dying.

And no one, not even her Tom, can save her.

She manages to whispers out his name, to glances down at him for the first and last time, to press a kiss to his soft, downy head, before the life slips out of her. Her head slumps to the bed, red, rich blood coursing out of her, tainting the white sheets.

Merope Gaunt was born in Spring, a squirming, tiny thing, that her mother nodded down at, before dying.

She was married in Summer, a private affair, just her and Tom, love shining in his eyes, her hands trembling as they exchanged rings.

Her baby kicked in Autumn, and she rushed to tell her husband, hand covering her swollen stomach proudly.

She died in Winter, and Tom Marvolo Riddle, inside his cradle, cried for the first time, eyes turned towards the frame of his mother.

Her Tom, the first of the Gaunt men to not have insanity shining in his eyes. Her last wish was for him to look like his father. He had to look like his father. She would not wish her own looks on anyone, or that of the Gaunt looks; deranged, evil, and wicked.

_Summer was the best time of her life. It was the time Merope Gaunt flourished, free from her family, and free to love the man she desired. _

_If only her son had known that sort of happiness, perhaps even only glimpsed it in his life, maybe, just maybe, she could have saved him from the monster he became. _Little did she know that she had passed on more of the Gaunt traits then she had ever desired.

The cheers of the crowd outside echo in the silent room, loud roars of happiness roaring flooding the room with noise as the crowd gathers. "1, 2, 3, 4!"

"Happy New Year!"

Blood pools around her legs, tainting the pale flesh of her thighs.


	33. James Sirius Potter

**The Forgotten Summer**

_James Sirius Potter_

**By PrincessGillybean**

He wakes groggy, confused, at first all he is aware of is the unbearable heat. His hair is plastered across his forehead, and the white sheets stick to his skin effectively strapping him to the bed. He looks around. The room is white. He is alone, no sign of life apart from an unfamiliar tree tapping at the window and a small vase of bright yellow flowers. _Daffodils._ The word comes unbidden into his mind. Those are the flowers then. They don't seem to like the heat anymore than he does. The white walls, the other bed with a stern metal bed frame and the sterile smell bring another word to mind. _Hospital wing. _Looking down he examines himself. He is tall; he can see his feet touch the end of the bed. He cannot feel them. He wonders where he is; this kind of heat does not bring any sense of recollection. And the unfamiliarity is starting to creep up his skin, as sweat forms in little beads. Finally he asks the question. _Who am I?_ Panic sets in and he struggles to sit. After wresting the binding sheets from him he starts to swing his legs off the bed. He cannot move them, again and again he tries, grunting with the effort until exhaustion sets in and he flops back on the bed. His skin is red all over, burnt and sore, an angry scar splashed across his torso. His legs wrapped in neat white linen he cannot see the damage, but the sense of loss is over whelming.

He stares and the ceiling, unseeing and tries to explore the blank space in his mind.

A woman walks in. _Nurse. _She exclaims over finding him awake, calls for a doctor and before he can formulate his question a man appears and an interrogation begins. Does this hurt? What about this? What is your name? What do you remember? He does his best, answers the few he can and suppresses the rise of panic.

Hours later the sun goes down in a fiery burst. It is cooler, but still stifling humid. He lies with his sheets drawn back and thinks over what he was told. The bones in his legs are shattered. They are doing their best but it is unlikely he will ever walk again. He wondered why they didn't just regrow. The doctor had laughed and said 'that would take some magic, son.'

Slowly he gets used to the heat. They tell him January is the worst for heat, that when the height of summer is over then it will cool a bit. The thought confuses him greatly. The broken air-conditiony in his room has been fixed, he still has trouble with some words but seems to have the same understanding of the world that the rest of the hospital residence do. It only takes reminding for him to remember.

He learns he is British. It is familiar.

He learns he is in a small town near Cairns, Australia and has no idea why. But it explains the heat, and the unfamiliar view from his window.

He gets used to the nurses, who giggle a lot and tell him he must have a worried girlfriend somewhere in the world. He remembers he likes flirting. It's familiar.

He gets used to Dr. Wells, who tries so hard to heal his broken legs. But for some reason, hospital triggers odd thoughts that he cannot seem to connect with where he is.

After a while he is allowed to be wheeled outside and makes friends with Old Harry, the gardener, whose name causes a twinge in his heart, and who lets him ask too many questions about the plants.

When he lies in bed at night, despite all the laughing and smiles he feels so achingly lonely he wants to cry. The thought horrifies him. He dreams of snow, and of flying through the air and of laughing voices that sound like his, not like the lazy Australian drawl, and that don't have slang for nearly ever word in the dictionary. Sometimes he dreams of explosions, of flashing coloured lights and men in dark cloaks. He wakes up from these dreams thrashing and screaming.

And he meets Tabitha, a young woman who comes to read to patients and blushes whenever he smiles. It seems to him that more often than not she is there, her low soothing voice taking him away to places far from his current pain, and troubles. He enjoys watching her read, as much, if not more, as hearing the story. She is tiny, and the hard armchair they placed by his bed seems to engulf her. She reminds him of something, but he is unsure what it is. The word _fairy_ comes to mind but it feels like one of those words that get him amused smiles and advice not to take all things literally from the medical staff.

She has large, expressive eyes, he can never quite tell the colour, but loves to watch them light up as she reads.

It is Tabitha who figures out his name. She came to read.

'Good morning.' She beams at him, as she settles down in the armchair and pulls out a book, 'This one's a children's book, but I love it, and it's British so maybe it'll jog some memory.'

He smiles, she is always attempting to jog his memory with her stories. Sometimes it works.

She tucks her legs under her and opens to the first page, 'James and the Gian –' as he heard the name, the rest of her words faded and he was overcome with a sense of possession. ' That's mine.'

She looks up, adorably confused, 'what is?'

'James,' as he speaks he grows all the more certain. 'My name is James.'

A huge grin breaks out on her face, transforming it, she jumps up, 'Oh, of course. That's wonderful!' She throws her arms around him, but after a moment recollects herself and pulls back, embarrassed. James hold on, and after a brief protest she relaxes again. 'Thank you' he murmurs then, aware of her discomfort, releases her. She sits back down, bright red hurriedly continues reading. Nothing else in the story speaks to him, though he's not exactly paying attention to her words.

Tabitha likes to wheel him around the garden; impossibly it seems cooler there, in the shade of the large eucalyptus tree. Outside, they talk,

He tells her a story, he doesn't know where it comes from but it is full of magic. Castles, giants, flying broomsticks and for some reason lots of redheads.

'Maybe you're an author?' She suggests, her knees are tucked up under her chin, a thoughtful expression on her almost childish face. The mystery of who he was had captivated her interest and she was constantly coming up with theories. He liked the international spy who got caught and tortured theory the best, though Dr Wells informed him the Australian Government did not condone torture. He was not to be trusted on this though, especially after some of the physiotherapy exercises he had prescribed.

'Maybe.' The sky was a vivid, unwavering blue, and the sun beat interesting shadows through the leaves. He liked to look at them, imagine what they could become. He has the urge to make them move, and his right hand twitches.

'I think you must have a large family. Because you're so friendly.'

'You're friendly.' Tabitha lived alone, and he knew her family to be distant and small.

'Well, I still think you must have a large one. They will want to find you. Then you will know who you are.' She looks wistful at the thought. 'Then you can go home.'

'Dr Wells said they've contacted the British embassy or whoever it is that can find out who I am. They're looking into it. But it's been a while. Not sure if they'll find anything.'

'What happens if they don't?'

Then he is told there is no chance of his legs recovering, that he will be in a wheelchair his whole life and that there is no longer room for him in the hospital, it was never large in the first place and his amnesia does not make him a priority. His identity will continue to be looked into in the mean time, where would he stay?

In the end, the choice was obvious and Tabitha wheeled him out of the hospital, and into her life.

He wakes, months later, in the middle of the night. Summer is drawing slowly to a close, but it still feels hot. Tabitha lies fast asleep, curled up in the crook of his arm. He stares into the bright green eyes looking down on him, feels the recollection try to force it's way through a concrete barrier and everything goes black.

_As the Australian summer turns to autumn, she struggles with__an overwhelming feeling that something seems to be missing. Her flat seems lonely, filled with things that ought not be there, or missing things that should. There are photos that seem half empty, books she doesn't recall buying and for some reason, one slightly too far away to grasp, half made plans for a trip to England. The memory of a non-existent summer weighs on her heart and she cannot bear it._


	34. Cho's Muggle

**Starting Summer**

_(Cho's Muggle)_

**By Kerney**

"The film we're watching today," Jake said to his Muggle Studies class, "was co produced by the education division of the Muggle Worthy Explanation Department in 2008. Can anyone tell me who the other producers might be?"

"ITV,"

"Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Weasley."

"Toho Studios." A pimply boy in a Ravenclaw tie spoke up.

"Here in the U.K., Jenkins," Jake said good naturedly, but he didn't give the points.

"Merchant-Ivory,"

"They're exclusively Muggle, Macmillan." The girl nodded.

"BBC."

"Brilliant, Mr. Corner." Jeffery smiled. "Five points, and another five points if anyone can name which division of the BBC does most of that type of work." He spoke slowly, empathizing the long vowels that marked his own speech. This was another subtle hint.

Jeffery enjoyed these question and answer sessions in his class and made sure he did them often. It also subtly favored his wife's house. There were a fair number of Hufflepuff, slightly more Gryffindor and a pair of Slytherins. But the largest numbers of students were in Ravenclaw blue. He would have done things like this even if it were not true. His wife was always a little a little happier when her students won the house cup. Even with her son in Hufflepuff that hadn't changed, though she concealed it until they were alone.

"Mr. Clearwater's hand was up first."

"BCC Wales."

"Five points to Ravenclaw. For twenty points, who can you tell me about the Swansea Library Incident."

Lucy Weasley got her hand up first and he pointed to her. "There were muggles—"

"People," Jake corrected. Miss Weasley was passionate about the subject and had set a goal of working of in Muggle fashion, which he encouraged. It reminded him of his own passion for the magical world, one that had been ignited the summer his brother Roger had gotten his letter.

"People were vanishing in the Old Swansea Library. The Scamanders investigated and discovered," the girl paused for a moment, thinking. "Shadows that melt the flesh?"

"Twenty points to Gryffindor." The red headed girl's face lit up. He lit up with her as he watched the look on her face. She was hungry for more. Professor Longbottom and Jake thought her most likely to marry a muggle; a fact that seemed to worry her pureblooded parents warmed his heart. With her in this class, pleasing his wife was harder. With an enthusiastic student, he didn't mind.

"O.K., and this film was written in a way that incorporates useful information on a magical creature that can be used to give people a fighting chance when they don't know what they're up against. It even includes the setting in which the creatures were discovered. Now, unlike the vampire or the Japanese flightless dragon warnings you read about in the texts they present a newly discovered creature, in a way that acts very much like a public service announcement. Except, presenting it as fiction lets it stay within the statute of secrecy.

"What good is that?" Jenkins spoke up again. He had an impulsive streak that made Jake's job easier.

"Jenkins, do you enjoy this class?"

"It's my favorite, sir."

"Then you know muggles have a general idea of how to deal with vampires that can be turned into a useful defense." Jake didn't mention the corollary to this. He'd used the same type of knowledge during the year of Death Eater rule to shelter his brother and his friend who had become his wife. _I was damn lucky too, and the Deatheaters had been ignorant. _Every once in awhile, the implications of what he was teaching gave him the shivers.

"You can watch this television show and be entertained. But there is also enough information here for any person," he stood in front of Jenkins and Miss Weasley to make the point that they were people too, "to survive an encounter provided they're lucky brave, and smart. Also, this is set in the future. Not all elements of the story are part of current muggle technology, which brings me to your O.W.L.s next week."

There were several groans, mostly involuntary." There were a couple people in the back who he knew had taken muggle studies due to it's lingering reputation as a soft option and three years into it they were still annoyed that it wasn't.

"There will be an essay question," the kids scribbled furiously in muggle notebooks wrote with ballpoint pens in his class, " about separating the fact from the fiction in this film." He paused for a moment so the slower students would have time to finish writing. "Once it gets started I'm going have to step out for a while so I think that should make you pay attention. I'll be back so I expect to see you all here when I get back."

"Miss Goyle," he called to a dark haired girl sitting next to the big screen projector and nodded to Mr. Clearwater, who pulled the cord of the Honda Generator sitting in one corner. "If you will." The room was especially insulated from the magical energies of the castle so things worked smoothly.

He watched through the prologue and when the familiar theme music came on and the class seemed properly enthralled, he quietly stepped out of classroom thirteen and into the hallway and walked down the hall to a formerly abandoned classroom which he and Neville had refitted for another purpose, back when Cho pregnant with Roger and Hannah Longottom had just given birth to their oldest daughter.

As of now, there were no Hogwarts faculty with small children, but the mirror they had installed on the far wall now served another purpose to Jake. If you stood in the hallway and the right angle, and looked through the window of the door, you could see most of the room. He had a few minutes before the appointment.

He waited, and watched. The trio inside, _the family,_ Jake mentally corrected himself. This part of his job was never fun, especially with these type of people. All three had startling beautiful looks and were dressed in the height of what Jake thought of as high wizarding style. The woman's long, straight blonde hair hung down in tight braids, accentuating her high, aristocratic cheekbones. Though in her thirties she seemed perfectly slim, coldly beautiful. The man had dark hair, curled perfectly. His size and broad shoulders were physically imposing. He looked tense, nervous, and was trying to hide it, not quite as well as his wife. He was glancing around, nervously, fidgeting, occasionally glancing at the little boy beside them, _their only son,_ with glances sometimes frustrated, sometimes sad. The boy as blonde as his mother, with the olive complexion of his father looked on anxiously.

Jake felt his wife before he saw her. Being small and light meant she could be quiet. She put her arms around his shoulders as she eased up beside them.

She took a moment and contemplated the couple in the room before she spoke.

"We played quiditch against him. He cheated. We still won." She had noticed what he was doing. She took longer looking at the woman. "She was horribly posh," Jake smiled at his wife's unselfconscious use of muggle slang. "Slytherin, named Daphne." After a moment of anticipation he turned and looked into her almond eyes, felt their hands clasp, sharing a quick, gentle kiss.

"Just talked to Neville. We're having the girls this weekend," She said gently.

"They'll take Meghan next weekend. The house will be ours," she whispered in her bedroom voice. He caught the scent of her perfume and could sense the smile on her lips. In this quiet, secluded hall the Head of Ravenclaw House and Charms Professor and the Muggles Studies Professor and Special Counselor Muggle and Squib affairs held each other like a couple of the teenagers they usually supervised.

"Mrs. Davies, I love how you think," he whispered in her ear. She blushed and laughed.

That was so like his Cho to erase the tension he was feeling. He felt young again, like the first year they were together, when she was in hiding and he was learning about the world he had only glimpsed through his brother's tales.

Together, their attention turned to the door. Inside were people who undoubtedly sympathized with those who had given the brother who'd once gotten a Hogwarts letter a dementor's kiss. An angry part of him was very much going to enjoy this meeting.

"Ready for this." He looked over to his wife. Her tone let him know, even without magic, she knew what she was thinking. Her look was warning him. She knew how he felt, even sympathized. Their son's name was Roger Cedric, after his brother and a boy who had been very special to her.

_It's for the boy not for the parents. _He reminded himself and squeezed her hand. A glance let her know he had gotten her message. If his grades were good, he'd contact Thomas Finch-Fletchly at Eton. If not, he'd probably set up something up with his new contact at Smeltings. It was only the gym teacher and he seemed a bit intimidated by wizards. Still, he needed to cultivate more contacts and this seemed a promising start.

With that they opened the door and with that, being professional colleagues became more important then being husband and wife, at least for now.

_Only thirty more Muggleborns and three squibs to go, _Jake thought. With that and their daughter Meghan starting in the fall, he knew it was going to be an interesting summer.


End file.
